HE  CHRISTMAS 
CHILD 


ORA  ARCHIBALD  SMlr 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
Mrs.    James   C.   Keesling,   Jr 


THE  CHRISTMAS  CHILD 
AND  OTHER  VERSE  FOR  CHILDREN 


CHRISTMAS  SECRETS  (page  27) 


THE  CHRISTMAS  CHILD 

AND  OTHER 

VEESE  FOR  CHILDREN 


BY 
NORA  ARCHIBALD  SMITH 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  HOME-MADE  KINDERGARTEN,"  "THREE  LITTLE  MARTS," 
"UNDER  THE  CACTUS  FLAG,"  ETC. 


With  Illustrations 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

prces 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    1930,   BY  NORA  ARCHIBALD  SMITH 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

(A  Christmas  Wish} 

This  is  the  day  of  the  Mother  and  Child, 
Of  Blessed  Babe  and  of  Mary  mild; 
Centuries  old  yet  eternally  young, 
Chanted  in  praises  of  every  tongue,  — 

Lily  divine  of  Motherhood, 
Child  who  has  taught  us  Brotherhood! 

This  is  the  season  of  Mother  and  Child,  — 
Then  let  me  wish  for  thee,  mother  mild, 
Who  of  thy  love  didst  bring  me  here, 
Gave  me  this  life  that  I  hold  so  dear, 

All  that  thy  heart  can  treasure, 

Joy  beyond  earthly  measure ! 


"And  I,  for  one,  would  much  rather, 

Could  I  merit  so  sweet  a  thing, 
Be  the  poet  of  little  children 
Than  the  laureate  of  a  king" 

LUCY  LARCOM 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  are  made  to  the  following  peri- 
odicals in  which  these  little  verses  for  children  first 
appeared:  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  The  Outlook, 
The  Interior,  Little  Folks,  The  Kindergarten  and  First 
Grade,  The  Housewife,  The  Churchman,  American 
Primary  Teacher,  The  Continent,  John  Martin's  Book, 
Mother's  Magazine,  Woman's  Home  Companion,  Sun- 
day School  Times,  Youth's  Companion,  Woman's 
World,  Table  Talk,  Journal  of  Education,  St.  Nicholas, 
Young  People's  Weekly,  The  Primary  School,  The 
Ladies9  World. 

Also  to  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company  and 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  permission  to  use 
verses  which  have  appeared  in  their  publications. 


CONTENTS 

To  MY  MOTHER  (A  CHRISTMAS  WISH)  v 

THE  CHRISTMAS  CHILD  1 

THE  CHRISTMAS  TRAVELERS  2 

SANTA  CLAUS  is  COMING!  4 

NEIGHBORS  OF  THE  CHRIST-NIGHT  6 

THE  BENEVOLENT  GNOME  8 

THE  CHRIST-CANDLE  11 

THE  GOOD  FIR-TREE  13 

A  CHILD'S  CHRISTMAS  CAROL  15 

THE  GOOD  SHIP  SANTA  CLAUS  16 

GRACE  FOR  CHRISTMAS  EVE  19 

CHRISTMAS  HELPERS  20 

A  CHRISTMAS  ACROSTIC  23 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  MOON  24 

To  A  CHILD  ON  CHRISTMAS  26 

CHRISTMAS  SECRETS  27 

How  THE  CHRIST-FLOWER  BLOOMED  29 

A  DEAR  LITTLE  BOY  32 

"L'OlSEAUDEDlEU"  35 

CHRISTMAS  IN  NORWAY  37 

THE  HAUGHTY  ASPEN  40 

xi 


CONTENTS 

REMEMBER!  42 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  SONG  44 

THE  BOASTFUL  SNOWFLAKE  46 

THE  GOOSE  FAIR  AT  WARSAW  47 

THE  FAIRY  RING  49 

I  WONDER!  52 

EVERYBODY'S  BABY  54 

WHICH  is  THE  ROYAL  BABY?  56 

FLOWER  SONG  58 

SWEET  SLEEP  59 

THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FLAG  60 

THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  FLAG  63 

PROTECT  THE  FLAG  66 

A  COLLAR  OF  HONOR  67 

THE  CHILDREN'S  SHIP  69 

SOLDIER  OR  SLACKER  71 

LEARNING  TO  KNIT  72 

THE  TIMID  OYSTER  74 

DlNNER-TlME  76 

THE  WANDERING  EELS  78 

EASTER  BLOSSOMS  81 

THE  LIFE-PRESERVERS  82 

TALKING  THROUGH  THE  HAT  84 

THE  DAY  OF  THE  DOG  88 

MEADOW  TALK  91 

xii 


CONTENTS 

KNOCKING  ON  WOOD  94 

THE  ROBIN  AND  THE  ANGLEWORM  96 

THE  JOLLY  DUGONG  98 

THE  DANDIFIED  MANATEE  101 

YOUNG  SUNDAY  HAT  103 

THE  LOLLIPOP  BUSH  106 

DIFFERENCE  IN  TASTES  108 

THE  WORD  OF  A  GENTLEMAN  109 

No  MAN'S  LAND  112 

KAMATU  SAN  AND  TJZABETH  ANN  114 

THE  LITTLE  TRENTICE  LAD  116 

THE  SUNFLOWER'S  STORY  120 

A  BANANA  STORY  122 

SONG  OF  THE  CARNAHUBA  PALM  124 

LITTLE  DORRIT'S  PLAYGROUND  12T 

THE  THREAD-AND-NEEDLE  TREE  129 

PEDDLING  POETRY  132 

THE  LITTLE  ARTIST  135 

THE  FEAST  OF  THE  DOLL  138 

THE  FEAST  OF  ARMS  139 

THE  FEAST  OF  LAUGHTER  141 

THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR  144 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

CHRISTMAS  SECRETS  Frontispiece 

THE  PRESENTS  HE  BOUGHT  WERE  A  WONDERFUL  SIGHT  8 

"GO  STAND  THOU  IN  THE  FROZEN  MOON!"  24 

THE  GEESE  ARE  TROOPING  TO  WARSAW  48 

HE  IS  GRAVELY  SALUTED  BY  EACH  BOLD  MARINE  68 

TALKING  THROUGH  THE  HAT  84 

"MY  PITCHER!  WILL  YOU  MEND  IT,  SIR?"  110 

THE  FEAST  OF  THE  DOLL  138 

The  first  two  illustrations  are  redrawn  from  John  Martin's  Book, 
the  Child's  Magazine,  the  third  from  Little  Folks,  and  the  others  from 
St.  Nicholas,  all  with  the  kind  permission  of  the  editors. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  CHILD 

THE  Christmas  child  is  a  lovely  child, 
Though  he  be  not  fair  of  face, 

For  his  heart  is  full  of  generous  thoughts 
And  his  eyes  are  full  of  grace. 

The  Christmas  child  is  a  helpful  child, 

Howsoever  poor  he  live; 
For  his  ears  are  lent  to  his  brother's  need, 

And  his  hands  outstretched  to  give. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TRAVELERS1 

(A  CHRISTMAS  PROCESSIONAL) 

I 

To  seek  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem, 

Three  Kings  of  Orient  came; 
Wise  Baltasar  and  Melchior, 

With  Caspar,  great  in  fame. 
Across  the  lonely  desert 

They  took  their  trackless  way, 
To  find  their  King  and  worship  Him 

That  wondrous  Christmas  Day. 
A  heav'nly  guide  their  Lord  did  send, 

A  radiant  jewel-star, 
Serene  and  bright  it  journey'd  on, 

And  sent  its  rays  afar. 
Around  the  shepherds  as  they  lay, 

It  shed  its  glorious  light; 
The  angels  came  in  multitude, 

And  fill'd  the  sky  of  night. 
;<  Good-will,"  they  sang,  "to  ev'ry  man 

And  glory  in  the  height." 

1  Music  from  Mendelssohn,  Opus  72,  No.  1. 
fl 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TRAVELERS 

II 

To  seek  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem, 

We  come  this  Christmas  Day, 
A  pilgrim  band,  our  Promis'd  Land, 

The  Manger  where  He  lay. 
No  splendid  robes  enfold  us, 

No  regal  gifts  we  bring, 
With  simple  faith  we  celebrate 

The  birthday  of  our  King. 
Oh,  star  divine,  still  shine  on  us, 

Still  let  thy  radiance  burn, 
Till  into  David's  city 

Our  lowly  footsteps  turn! 
There,  like  the  shepherds,  wondering, 

We'll  worship,  kneeling  still; 
There,  like  the  angel  multitude, 

Our  song  the  heavens  fill, 
And  tell  the  birth  of  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 


3 


SANTA  CLATJS  IS  COMING! 

UP  among  the  chimneys  high, 

Hark  the  merry  sound! 
The  reindeer's  tramp,  the  ring  of  bells, 

All  the  city  round. 

Santa  Glaus  is  coming  with  his  pack  of  toys, 
Santa  Glaus  is  coming  to  his  girls  and  boys. 
Santa  Glaus  is  coming;  he'll  be  welcome  here, 
For  he  only  comes  to  see  us  once  a  year! 

Clad  in  fur  from  head  to  foot, 

Warm  and  soft  he  goes, 
With  silver  hair  and  dimpled  chin, 

Cheek  that's  like  a  rose. 
Santa  Claus  is  coming  with  his  pack  of  toys, 
Santa  Claus  is  coming  to  his  girls  and  boys. 
Santa  Claus  is  coming;  he'll  be  welcome  here, 
For  he  only  comes  to  see  us  once  a  year! 

Stop  the  sleigh,  the  reindeer  halt! 

We  are  waiting  here, 
And  every  stocking's  hanging  up, 

Come  down,  Santa  dear! 
4 


SANTA  CLAUS  IS  COMING! 

Santa  Glaus  is  coming  with  his  pack  of  toys, 
Santa  Glaus  is  coming  to  his  girls  and  boys. 
Santa  Glaus  is  coming;  he'll  be  welcome  here, 
For  he  only  comes  to  see  us  once  a  year! 


NEIGHBORS  OP  THE  CHRIST-NIGHT 

Remember,  little  dearest  one, 

The  beasts  on  Christmas  Day, 
And  give  to  each  his  bite  and  sup, 

To  each  his  meed  of  hay, 
For  so  it  was  on  the  Christ-night. 

DEEP  in  the  shelter  of  the  cave, 
The  ass  with  drooping  head 

Stood  weary  in  the  shadow,  where 
His  master's  hand  had  led. 

About  the  manger  oxen  lay, 

Bending  a  wide-eyed  gaze 
Upon  the  little  new-born  Babe, 

Half  worship,  half  amaze. 

High  in  the  roof  the  doves  were  set, 
And  cooed  there,  soft  and  mild, 

Yet  not  so  sweet  as  in  the  hay, 
The  Mother  to  her  Child. 

The  gentle  cows  breathed  fragrant  breath 

To  keep  Babe  Jesus  warm, 
While  loud  and  clear,  o'er  hill  and  dale, 

The  cocks  crowed,  "Christ  is  born!" 
6 


NEIGHBORS  OF  THE  CHRIST-NIGHT 

Out  in  the  fields,  beneath  the  stars, 

The  young  lambs  sleeping  lay, 
And  dreamed  that  in  the  manger  slept 

Another,  white  as  they. 

These  were  Thy  neighbors,  Christmas  Child 

To  Thee  their  love  was  given, 
For  in  Thy  baby  face  there  shone 

The  wonder-light  of  Heaven. 


THE  BENEVOLENT  GNOME 

AN  elderly  gnome  of  benevolent  turn 

And  master  of  treasures  untold, 
Once  lived  in  a  forest  and  guarded  his  mines 

And  stored  up  his  jewels  and  gold. 
Alone  lived  the  gnome  and  no  kindred  had  he, 

No  gnomelets  to  hand  down  his  name; 
No  creature  to  cheer  him,  not  even  a  cat, 

No  housemates  to  praise  him  or  blame. 
And  Christmas  was  coming! 

With  none  could  he  share, 
No  tree  could  he  help  to  adorn, 

No  stocking  replenish,  no  storeroom  refill! 
WTas  ever  a  gnome  more  forlorn? 

But  sudden  one  morning  he  happened  to  think, 
Though  kin  in  the  wood  he  had  none, 

Yet  neighbors  in  feathers  and  neighbors  in  fur 
Were  plenty  as  motes  in  the  sun. 

"The  fox,"  thought  the  gnome, 
"  What  a  joy  it  would  be 
8 


THE  PRESENTS  HE  BOUGHT  WERE  A  WONDERFUL  SIGHT 


THE  BENEVOLENT  GNOME 

To  give  him  a  plan  of  each  farm, 

A  guide  to  each  hen-roost  adjoining  his  den 

And  thus  to  protect  him  from  harm. 

The  owl,"  he  thought,  "is  an  excellent  bird 

Though  somewhat  addicted  to  gloom. 

I  '11  buy  him  a  grammar  and  teach  him  to  say 

No  longer  'To  who!'  but  'To  whom!' 

"  The  squirrel  is  restless.  Some  potion  or  balm 

Would  quiet  his  nerves  for  a  space; 
A  bottle  of  tonic  would  pleasure  the  fish 

And  set  their  cold  blood  in  a  race. 
A  cheese  for  the  wood-mice  I'll  quickly  procure; 

A  string  of  gay  beads  for  the  crow; 
Some  greens  for  the  rabbit,  some  furs  for  the  snake, 

And  skis  for  the  buck  and  the  doe." 
With  bark  for  his  notebook,  a  thorn  for  his  pen, 

His  list  was  soon  plainly  writ  down, 
And,  clinking  his  money  in  holiday  mood, 

Our  hero  set  out  for  the  town. 
The  presents  he  bought  were  a  wonderful  sight, 

They  hung  from  each  tree  in  the  wood; 
No  beast  was  forgotten,  no  matter  how  small, 

No  bird,  were  he  evil  or  good. 


THE  BENEVOLENT  GNOME 

The  elderly  gnome  of  benevolent  turn 

No  longer  was  lonely  or  sad; 
In  sharing  with  others  he'd  found  his  content, 

In  gladdening,  he  was  made  glad. 


10 


THE  CHRIST-CANDLE 

A  SONG  FOR  CHRISTMAS  EVE 

I 

'T  is  Holy  Night  in  the  hamlet  olden, 

Darkness  lowers  her  curtain  down; 
With  fingers  of  sleep  the  eyes  are  holden, 

Naught  is  awake  in  the  dreaming  town. 
Shineth  one  light  in  a  cottage  window, 

Set  for  the  Christ-child's  tender  feet, 
Lest  that  they  stumble,  lest  that  they  falter, 

Passing  to-night  thro'  the  silent  street. 

Shine,  sweet  light,  from  thy  humble  dwelling, 
Brightly  beam  on  the  toilsome  way; 

Long  must  he  journey  —  the  darling  Christ-child 
Far  and  far  has  he  still  to  stray. 

II 

The  world  is  asleep  and  the  world  is  weary, 
Scarce  it  remembers  the  Holy  Night; 

Error  and  wretchedness,  sinful,  dreary, 
Cover  and  darken  the  spirit-sight. 

11 


THE  CHRIST-CANDLE 

Stay  not  to  come  to  us,  blessed  Christ-child, 
Tho'  we  be  slumbering,  tho'  we  forget, 

Tho'  they  be  scanty,  the  lights  that  await  thee, 
Heavenly  Messenger,  stay  not  yet! 

Here  is  my  light  in  my  true  heart's  window, 
Angel  of  Christmastide,  come  to  me; 

If  thou  wilt  enter  so  lowly  a  chamber, 
Here  shall  thy  home  and  thy  shelter  be. 


THE  GOOD  FIR-TREE 

THERE  were  two  little  fir-trees  that  happened  to  grow 

In  the  shade  of  the  forest  wide, 
And  one  was  a  good  tree  and  one  was  as  bad 

As  you  'd  find  in  a  day-long  ride. 
He  never  would  listen,  he  never  would  mind 

The  words  of  the  motherly  tree; 
And  it  need  n't  surprise  you  to  learn  he  was  soon 

As  crooked  as  crooked  could  be. 

The  good  little  fir-tree  delighted  to  hear 

The  counsels  of  wisdom  that  fell 
From  the  myriad  lips  of  the  motherly  tree, 

And  he  pondered  them  all  right  well. 
"Strike  deep  with  your  rootlets,"  the  mother  advised; 

"Hold  firmly  your  head  in  the  air; 
There  are  wonderful  things  that  may  happen  to  come 

To  a  fir-tree  that's  perfect  and  fair." 

The  bad  little  sapling  was  sulky  and  rude; 
He  said  a  fine  tree  never  grew 

13 


THE  GOOD  FIR-TREE 

In  such  a  deep  shade  as  that  tangled-up  wood; 

He  was  bound  to  be  crooked,  he  knew. 
His  needles  they  withered;  he  blighted  at  heart; 

And  his  fate  at  the  end  it  was  dire; 
For  they  pulled  him  up  bodily,  rootlet  and  crown. 

And  they  used  him  to  kindle  the  fire! 

But  oh,  the  good  fir-tree,  he  never  had  hoped 

And  scarce  could  believe  such  a  thing  — 
The  children  discovered  his  place  in  the  wood 

And  round  him  they  danced  in  a  ring. 
They  carried  him  homeward,  and  —  what  do  you 
think?  — 

'T  was  the  happiest  lot  that  could  be,  — 
And  fairest  of  fortunes  that  ever  befell  — 

Why,  they  made  him  a  Christmas  Tree! 


14 


A  CHILD'S  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

WHAT  is  the  fairest  Christmas  gift 

A  little  child  can  bring? 
A  heart,  as  pure  and  white  as  plume 
That  drops  from  angel's  wing. 
Oh,  glad  hearts  sing, 
And  joy  bells  ring, 
In  the  bright  December  weather. 

What  is  the  sweetest  Christmas  song 

A  little  child  can  sing? 
A  song  of  love,  of  heavenly  love, 
That  flows  for  everything. 
Oh,  glad  hearts  sing, 
And  joy  bells  ring, 
In  the  bright  December  weather. 

What  is  the  dearest  Christmas  tune 

The  belfry  chimes  can  ring? 
A  birthday  carol  they  can  sound, 
The  birthday  of  the  King. 
Oh,  glad  hearts  sing, 
And  joy  bells  ring, 
In  the  bright  December  weather. 
15 


THE  GOOD  SHIP  SANTA  CLAUS 

LET'S  take  a  shiny  airship  and  let's  name  it  Santa 

Claus, 

And  go  a-whisking  off  across  the  blue, 
And  let 's  do  a  lot  of  errands  for  the  very  best  of  saints, 

Who  has  n't  time  for  all  he  wants  to  do. 
There  are  polar  bears  complaining  up  among  the 

northern  snows 

That  they  have  n't  any  honey  for  their  cubs; 
And  mother  mermaids  moaning  on  the  bottom  of  the 

sea 

'Cause  they  have  to  do  their  washing  without  tubs. 
There  are  mud-larks  by  the  dozen  who,  I  'm  credibly 

informed, 

Have  never  had  a  chance  to  lark  in  mud, 
And  sea  cows  ruminating  where  the  water  grasses  grow, 

Who  have  never  had  a  new  taste  for  their  cud. 
There  are  monkeys  in  menageries  who  tell  me  that  it 's 

years 

Since  they  had  a  single  cocoanut  to  throw, 
And  that  as  for  tails  prehensile,  they  have  nothing 

to  prehense, 

So  the  object's  a  deception  and  a  show. 

16 


THE  GOOD  SHIP  SANTA  CLAUS 

There  are  jackdaws  kept  in  cages  with  no  single  thing 

to  steal, 

And  you  know  a  daw  would  rather  steal  than  eat; 
There  are  kangaroos  with  pouches  just  as  empty  as  a 

gourd 
Who'd  be  pleased  to  fill  them  up  with  something 

sweet; 
And  centipedes  who  should,  by  rights,  have  long  ago 

been  shod, 

Who've  never  even  seen  a  boot  or  shoe, 
And  owls  who  keep  protesting  that  they  would  n't  be 

so  dull 

If  they  only  had  a  lesson-book  or  two. 
And  we  shan't  forget  the  parrots,  who  with  beaks  de- 
signed' to  hook, 

Never  had  an  hour's  fishing  in  their  days, 
Nor  the  bats,  who,  if  they'd  spectacles  that  really 

fitted  well, 

Would  travel  in  more  reputable  ways. 
What  ho!  What  ho!  the  Santa  Claus!  Swoop  down 

from  out  the  sky! 

We're  ready  with  our  bundles.  Heave  ahoy! 
Stand  fast  and  pack  her  solid  to  the  very  outer  rim, 
And  tuck  in  every  chink  a  Christmas  toy. 

17 


THE  GOOD  SHIP  SANTA  CLAUS 

As  we  skim  across  the  water  we  will  drop  the  presents 

in 

For  those  who  dare  not  venture  on  the  land. 
And  when  we  reach  the  forest,  we  will  hang  them  on 

the  trees 

And  mark  them  so  the  least  can  understand. 
What  ho!  What  ho!  the  Santa  Claus!  The  time  is 

growing  short  — 

Pull  all  the  anchors  up  and  let  her  go! 
No  beast  must  be  forgotten  from  the  East  unto  the 

West, 
Nor  from  land  of  southern  sun  to  land  of  snow. 


18 


GRACE  FOR  CHRISTMAS  EVE1 

THE  Baby  born  in  Bethlehem 

A  sorry  shelter  had, 
While  we,  who  gather  here  to-night 

Are  warm  and  softly  clad. 

The  Baby  born  in  Bethlehem 

Was  fed  on  humble  fare, 
And  yet  our  board  is  richly  spread  » 

With  dainty  food  and  rare. 

Our  beds  are  downy -smooth  and  white, 

He  slumbered  in  the  hay; 
'T  is  good  that  we  remember  this, 

Each  blessed  Christmas  Day. 

And  good  that  we  remember,  too, 

To  pay  our  thanks  and  praise 
To  Heavenly  Love  that  brought  us  here 

And  gave  this  Day  of  Days. 

1  From  dramatic  version  of  The  Birds9  Christmas  Carol,  by  Kate 
Douglas  Wiggin. 

19 


CHRISTMAS  HELPERS 

I  WENT  to  the  forest  and  asked  of  the  trees, 

As  bowing  and  swaying,  they  bent  to  the  breeze, 

"Now,  tell  me,  my  brothers,  now,  tell,  if  you  please, 

Just  what  can  you  do  for  Christmas?" 
And  straightway  they  answered,  the  dark,  lofty  trees 
As  spicy  and  fragrant,  they  waved  in  the  breeze, 
"We're  trying  our  best  to  grow  tall,  if  you  please, 

We're  trying  to  grow  for  Christmas!" 

I  passed  by  the  draper's  and  saw  in  a  box, 

Such  masses  of  stockings,  both  plain  and  with  clocks; 

And  eager  I  asked  them,  "My  sweet  little  socks, 

Now  what  will  you  do  for  Christmas?" 
And  straightway  they  answered  from  out  of  their  box, 
Those  stout-footed  stockings,  both  plain  and  with 

clocks,  — 
"We'll  try  to  fulfill  the  first  duty  of  socks,  — 

We'll  try  to  keep  whole  for  Christmas!" 

I  entered  the  toy  shop  and  said  to  the  toys  — 
Such  wonderful  treasures  for  girls  and  for  boys! 

20 


CHRISTMAS  HELPERS 

"You  dear,  pretty  playthings,  you  holiday  joys, 
Pray,  what  will  you  do  for  Christmas?" 

And  straightway  they  answered,  those  shining  new 
toys, 

Those  marvelous  presents  for  girls  and  for  boys, 

"To  play  with  a  child  is  the  chief  of  our  joys; 
We'll  visit  them  all  on  Christmas." 

To  cloudland  I  wandered  and  asked  of  the  snow, 

As  dancing  and  whirling,  it  sped  to  and  fro, 

"Now,  tell  me,  fair  snowflakes,  —  I  long  so  to  know, 

Just  what  are  your  plans  for  Christmas!" 
And  straightway  they  answered,  the  soft  flakes  of 

snow, 

As  circling  and  floating,  they  flew  to  and  fro, 
"We  think  we  should  do  the  best  thing,  do  you  know, 

If  we  fell  thick  and  white  for  Christmas." 

I  climbed  to  the  belfry  and  questioned  the  bell, 
All  murm'ring  with  sound,  like  the  heart  of  a  shell, 
"Now,  tell  me,  my  silver-tongue,  truthfully  tell, 

What  song  will  you  sing  on  Christmas?" 
And  straightway  the  resonant  voice  of  the  bell 
All  vibrant  with  sound  like  a  tropical  shell, 

21 


CHRISTMAS  HELPERS 

Replied,  "The  glad  message  I'll  joyfully  tell, 
I'll  ring  the  Good  News  on  Christmas!" 

I  asked  of  the  tapers,  the  stars  and  each  light 
That  blooms  in  the  heavenly  garden  of  night:  — 
"Now,  tell  me,  ye  shining  ones,  lovely  and  bright, 

What  best  can  you  do  for  Christmas?" 
And  straightway  they  answered,  star,  taper  and  light, 
All  blooming  and  fair  in  the  garden  of  night;  — 
"O'er  land  and  o'er  ocean,  we'll  beam  clear  and 
bright, 

We'll  shine  out  our  best  for  Christmas!" 


A  CHRISTMAS  ACROSTIC 

C  AROLLERS  singing  at  morning  gray; 

H  oily  and  ivy  in  brave  array; 

R  inging  of  bells  in  the  tow'r  aloft, 

I  ncense  below  and  a  chanting  soft,  — 

S  o  should  it  be  on  Christmas! 

T  elling  the  tale  of  the  Wonderful  Child, 

M  ary,  his  worshiping  Mother  mild, 

A  ngels  adoring  in  Heav'n  above 

S  inging  their  praises  of  infinite  love, 

So  should  it  be  on  Christmas, 
Ever  should  be  on  Christmas! 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  MOON 

(A  German  Folk-Tale) 

IN  Germany,  the  story  goes, 

Once  lived  a  thieving  peasant, 
Who  pilfered  from  his  neighbor's  stores 

What  to  his  taste  was  pleasant. 
All  in  a  garden,  near  at  hand, 

Some  cabbages  were  growing, 
And  forth  he  slipped,  one  Christmas  Eve, 

No  shame,  no  reverence,  knowing, 
To  fill  his  basket  in  the  dark, 

When  none  abroad  were  going. 

He  still  was  pulling,  might  and  main, 

His  greediness  unbounded, 
When  on  the  hard  and  frosty  road 

A  horse's  tramp  resounded. 
White  shone  the  steed,  the  rider  white, 

His  face  showed  many  a  wrinkle; 
Low  bent  the  thief,  for  silver-bright 

The  stars  began  to  twinkle. 
"T  is  good  Saint  Nicholas!"  he  cried, 

"I  hear  his  hand-bell  tinkle!" 
24 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  MOON 

The  stately  Bishop  drew  his  rein  — 
He  spied  the  peasant  hiding; 

"T  is  Holy  Christmas  Eve,"  called  he, 
"Thy  guilt's  the  more  abiding! 

Go  stand  thou  in  the  frozen  moon, 
And  come  thou  downward  never! 

So  long  as  earth  lasts,  nothing  shall 

Thee  and  thy  booty  sever!" 

•        •        •        •        •        •        •        • 

Still  in  the  moon  the  culprit  dwells, 
'Mid  cabbages  forever! 


TO  A  CHILD  ON  CHRISTMAS 

(ACROSTIC) 

C  HILDREN  should  on  Christinas  be 

H  and  in  hand  around  a  tree. 

R  inging  voices  should  resound 

I  n  a  carol's  joyful  round, 

S  inging  of  the  Baby  born 

T  o  the  world  on  Christmas  morn. 

M  usic  such  as  this  can  say 

A  11  glad  things  in  gladdest  way; 

S  ongs  of  love  on  Christmas  Day! 


CHRISTMAS  SECRETS 

I  JUST  love  secrets;  it's  such  fun 
To  hint  and  whisper,  hide  and  run, 
And  Christmas  time  of  all  the  year 
Is  just  when  there's  the  greatest  fear 
That  folks  will  find  out  what  you're  doin' 
And  bring  your  plans  to  rack  and  ruin. 

My  Christmas  shoppin'  —  it 's  all  done 
And  presents  bought  for  every  one. 
Nobody  knows  exceptin'  me 
What  all  the  things  are  goin'  to  be. 
They're  always  askin',  but  I  say: 
"You'd  better  wait  till  Christmas  Day!" 

I  've  bought  my  father  somethin'  white 
And  thin  and  smooth;  you  fold  it  tight 
And  in  your  pocket  is  its  house; 
It  snuggles  there  just  like  a  mouse. 
I  told  my  father  all  of  this, 
But  he  says  he  can't  guess  what 't  is! 
27 


CHRISTMAS  SECRETS 

My  mother's  present  is  to  wear, 
There's  two  of  it,  it's  called  a  pair; 
It's  smooth  and  shiny,  black  and  white, 
It  goes  by  day  and  goes  by  night. 
My  mother  guessed  a  bird,  with  wings  — 
When  ever  did  you  hear  such  things! 

I  bought  my  sister  somethin'  red, 
You  tie  it  tight  around  your  head; 
It 's  silky-smooth  as  any  rose. 
What  can  it  be,  do  you  suppose? 
My  sister  guessed  a  bathin'  hat  — 
As  if  I'd  give  a  thing  like  that! 

They're  not  good  guessers,  though  they're  dear; 
They'll  never  know  my  plans,  that's  clear. 
When  Christmas  comes,  what  glad  surprise 
And  thanks  will  shine  from  all  their  eyes. 
There's  not  a  clam  down  by  the  sea 
Can  hold  his  tongue  so  well  as  Me! 


HOW  THE  CHRIST-FLOWER  BLOOMED 

(From  a  German  Legend) 

DARK  was  the  sky  that  Christmas  Eve, 

The  heavy  clouds  hung  low; 
The  charcoal  burner  scarce  could  trace 

His  pathway  through  the  snow. 

Black  Forest  trees  stood  thick  and  tall, 
Black  Forest  drifts  were  deep; 

Yet  light  of  heart  he  hastened  home 
The  Christmas  feast  to  keep. 

A  cheese  of  goat's  milk,  coarse  black  bread 

The  morrow's  scanty  meal, 
From  prying  frost  and  envious  sleet 

He  struggled  to  conceal. 

He  stumbled  on,  when  through  the  blast 

A  piteous  cry  was  heard, 
And  close  beside  him,  heaped  in  snows, 

A  wailing  infant  stirred. 
29 


HOW  THE  CHRIST-FLOWER  BLOOMED 

"Now,  who  has  laid  thee  here,  sweet  babe, 

To  perish  in  the  storm? 
'T  is  Christmas  Eve;  I'll  take  thee  home, 
My  cloak  shall  wrap  thee  warm." 

The  tiny  creature,  as  he  spoke, 

He  gathered  to  his  breast, 
And  there  beyond,  his  cottage  shone, 

In  Christmas  firelight  dressed. 

Within  the  good-wife's  tender  arms 

The  shivering  waif  was  set, 
And  children's  faces  bent  above, 

And  eyes  with  pity  wet. 

Warm  and  content,  the  stranger  babe 
Gazed  wondering  o'er  the  room, 

And  spied  at  last  the  children's  tree, 
A  Christmas  rose  in  bloom. 

Eager  they  ran  to  show  the  lights, 
And  round  their  treasure  pressed; 

When  lo!  a  glimmering  cloud  of  mist 
Enwrapped  the  wondrous  guest. 
30 


HOW  THE  CHRIST-FLOWER  BLOOMED 

On  silver-shining  wings  he  rose, 
His  fair  head  bore  a  crown, 

And  vanishing,  with  baby  hands 
He  wafted  blessings  down. 

Next  morning,  where  amid  the  snows 
The  Babe  had  made  his  bed, 

Fair  as  a  star,  and  dazzling  white, 
The  Christ-Flower  raised  its  head. 

They  bore  it  home,  and  every  year 

In  depths  of  winter  wild, 
Chrysanthemums  bloom  in  that  cot, 

Where  came  the  Holy  Child. 


31 


A  DEAR  LITTLE  BOY 

A  GAY  soldier-jacket, 
A  suitcase  to  pack  it, 
A  box  full  of  candy, 
A  fine  Jack-a-dandy, 

Kind  Christmas  is  bringing  to  me. 
A  red-crested  Polly, 
A  garland  of  holly, 
A  nut  and  a  raisin, 
A  fine  trumpet  brazen,  — 

Oh,  what  a  rich  boy  I  shall  be! 

Some  nails  and  a  hammer 
To  make  a  fine  clamor, 
A  pony  to  ride  on, 
Some  stilts  I  can  stride  on, 

Kind  Christmas  is  bringing  to  me. 
A  yellow  canary 
My  pets  for  to  vary, 
A  jar  full  of  cookies, 
Some  nice  picture-bookies,  — 

Oh,  what  a  rich  boy  I  shall  be! 
32 


A  DEAR  LITTLE  BOY 

Some  sleigh-bells  to  jingle, 
Like  those  of  Kriss  Kringle, 
Two  little  black  kittens, 
A  pair  of  red  mittens, 

Kind  Christmas  is  bringing  to  me. 
A  purse  full  of  money, 
A  snowy- white  bunny,  — 
A  horse  fit  for  rocking, 
Some  sweets  for  my  stocking,  — 

Oh,  what  a  rich  boy  I  shall  be! 

My  trundle-bed  scorning, 
When  comes  the  glad  morning, 
My  gifts  I  '11  find  early, 
With  fine  hurly-burly, 

What  Christmas  is  bringing  to  me. 
'  Get  up!  "I  '11  be  saying, 
'I  want  to  go  playing! 
My  breakfast  be  hasting, 
There's  no  time  for  wasting!" 

Oh,  what  a  rich  boy  I  shall  be! 

'And  grandmother's  'f airing'?" 
She's  too  old  for  caring! 
S3 


A  DEAR  LITTLE  BOY 

'And  wee  sister  Jennie?" 
She's  too  small  for  any. 

Kind  Christmas  is  coming  to  ME ! 
'My  father  and  mother?" 
Oh,  they  will  not  bother, 
If  I  am  not  sighing, 
Nor  fretting  nor  crying, 

Oh,  what  a  rich  boy  I  shall  be! 


34 


"L'OISEAU  DE  DIEU"1 

(A  Legend  of  Normandy) 

WHEN  sweet  Babe  Jesus  sleeping  lay 

And  shivered  with  the  cold; 
The  wee  brown  wren  took  thought  to  Him, 
Her  down  she  plucked  and  brought  to  Him, 

Enwrapped  Him,  fold  on  fold. 

When  sweet  Babe  Jesus  craved  a  robe, 

A-couching  in  the  hay, 
Her  own  warm  plumes  she  laid  on  Him, 
A  feathered  garb  she  made  on  Him, 

That  blessed  Christmas  Day. 

Babe  Jesus  lacked  a  coverlet; 

The  rude  wind  stole  within; 
The  wren  brought  leaves  and  spread  on  Him, 
Russet  and  gold  she  shed  on  Him, 

And  lapped  Him  softly  in. 

1  God's  Bird. 
35 


L'OISEAU  DE  DIEU 

Dear  bird  of  brown,  thou  tender  heart, 

Thou  gav'st  the  Babe  thine  all! 
To  praise  thee  is  most  meet  to  us, 
Thy  pitying  deeds  are  sweet  to  us, 
God's  blessing  on  thee  fall! 


36 


CHRISTMAS  IN  NORWAY 

A  FLOCK  of  crows  a  caucus  held 

Upon  a  certain  day, 
And  talked  of  many  a  sober  theme, 

In  sober,  serious  way. 

They  touched  on  corn,  on  growing  crops, 
They  praised  the  plough  and  hoe; 

And  bolder  ones  of  scarecrows  spoke 
With  bated  breath  and  low. 

At  length,  a  crow  advanced  in  years, 

His  speech  a  feeble  caw, 
Arose  to  tell  of  things  that  he 

In  foreign  countries  saw. 

"One  Christmas  Day  I  chanced  to  be 
In  Norway,"  quoth  the  bird; 

"And  't  was  the  coldest  winter  wind 
That  e'er  my  feathers  stirred. 

"My  mate  was  ill  and  could  not  fly, 

And,  anxious  at  her  plight, 
I  pondered  where  to  seek  her  food 
Through  all  the  bitter  night. 
37 


CHRISTMAS  IN  NORWAY 

"The  morning  broke  on  icy  trees, 

And  fields  adrift  with  snow, 
And  faint  with  hunger,  numb  with  cold 
I  scarce  knew  where  to  go. 

"Beyond  the  wood  a  farmhouse  stood, 

And  there  at  length  I  flew, 
Hoping  to  find  a  seed  or  crumb 
To  feed  my  mate  so  true. 

"Wary,  I  flapped  above  the  roof, 

When,  what  my  eyes  should  greet, 
But,  fixed  to  gable,  door  and  gate, 
Great  sheaves  of  golden  wheat! 

"  Behind  the  shining  window-panes, 

Stood  children  all  a-row, 
And  happy  voices  eager  cried, 

*  Bright  Christmas!  Master  Crow!' 

"Oh,  blessings  on  those  kindly  folk 

At  Christmas  evermore, 
And  blest  be  all  that  feed  the  birds 
In  Norway's  rocky  shore!" 
38 


CHRISTMAS  IN  NORWAY 

He  ceased.  A  chorus  loud  arose 

From  birds  both  far  and  near; 
"Ah!  would  the  children  in  this  land 
Provide  such  Christmas  cheer1" 


39 


THE  HAUGHTY  ASPEN 

(A  German  Legend) 

As  I  went  through  the  tangled  wood 

I  heard  the  Aspen  shiver. 
( What  dost  thou  ail,  sweet  Aspen,  say, 

Why  do  thy  leaflets  quiver?" 

6  T  was  long  ago,"  the  Aspen  sighed  — 

How  long  is  past  my  knowing  — 
8  When  Mary  Mother  rode  adown 

This  wood  where  I  was  growing. 
Blest  Joseph  journey'd  by  her  side, 

Upon  his  good  staff  resting, 
And  in  her  arms  the  Heav'nly  Babe, 

Dove  of  the  World,  was  nesting. 
Fair  was  the  mother,  shining-fair, 

A  lily  sweetly  blowing; 
The  Babe  was  but  a  lily-bud, 

Like  to  his  mother  showing. 
The  birds  began,  'Thy  Master  comes! 

Bow  down,  bow  down  before  Him!' 
The  date,  the  fig,  the  hazel  tree, 

In  rev'rence  bent  to  adore  Him. 
40 


THE  HAUGHTY  ASPEN 

I  only,  out  of  all  the  host 

Of  bird  and  tree  and  flower,  — 
I,  haughty,  would  not  bow  my  head, 

Nor  own  my  Master's  power. 
Proud  Aspen,'  quoth  the  Mother-Maid, 

'Thy  Lord,  dost  thou  defy  Him? 
When  emperors  worship  at  His  shrine, 

Wilt  courtesy  deny  Him?' 
I  heard  her  voice;  my  heart  was  rent, 

My  boughs  began  to  shiver, 
And  age  on  age,  in  punishment, 

My  sorrowing  leaflets  quiver." 

Still  in  the  dark  and  tangled  wood, 

Still  doth  the  Aspen  quiver. 
The  haughty  tree  doth  bear  a  curse, 

Her  leaflets  aye  must  shiver. 


41 


REMEMBER! 

WHAT'S  the  very  best  rhyme  for  December? 
Why,  of  course  you  must  know  5t  is  REMEMBER! 
Remember  the  snowflakes, 

The  green  Christmas  tree, 
The  red  holly  berries 

Each  season  we  see. 
Remember!  December!  Remember! 

What  word  do  bells  ring  in  December? 
Why,  of  course  you  can  hear  't  is  REMEMBER! 
Remember  the  carols, 

The  tinkle  of  sleighs, 
The  chickadee  singing 

In  gloomiest  days. 
Remember!  December!  Remember! 

What  story  is  told  in  December? 
To  read  it  once  is  to  remember, 
Remember  the  manger, 

The  Baby  that  lay, 
His  sweet  mother  watching, 

All  cradled  in  hay. 
Remember!  December!  Remember! 


REMEMBER 

What  song  do  we  sing  in  December, 
When  the  birth  of  the  Babe  we  remember? 
The  song  of  the  angels, 

We  echo  it  still; 
O'er  all  the  earth  singing 
Of  peace  and  good  will. 
Remember!  December!  Remember! 


43 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  SONG 

ON  New  Year's  Eve  in  England, 

All  in  the  olden  day, 
The  children  went  a-caroling, 

All  in  the  olden  way; 
And  ever  as  they  journey'd  on, 

This  chorus  would  you  hear:  — 
"God  send  you  happy,  God  send  you  happy, 

Pray  God  send  you  a  happy  New  Year!" 

Across  the  fields  and  meadows 

And  through  the  frosty  light, 
While  starry  eyes  and  starry  skies 

Illumed  the  wintry  night, 
The  children  caroled  blithely  on, 

In  chorus  sweet  and  clear:  — 
"God  send  you  happy,  God  send  you  happy, 

Pray  God  send  you  a  happy  New  Year!'* 

Our  days  are  sadly  modern, 

Our  ways  are  modern,  too; 
But  hearts  still  beat  as  high  with  love 

As  once  they  used  to  do  — 
44 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  SONG 

So  take  the  old-time  message, 

Good  friends,  both  far  and  near: 
"God  send  you  happy,  God  send  you  happy, 
Pray  God  send  you  a  happy  New  Year!" 


45 


THE  BOASTFUL  SNOWFLAKE 

A  SNOWFLAKE  remarked  to  his  mother  one  day, 

His  calm  sweet  mother  of  cloud  so  gray, 

"When  7  fall  to  earth,  there's  none  but  will  know, 

For  I'll  fall  with  a  whiz,  and  a  whir,  and  a  go! 

I'll  pile  up  a  drift  by  myself,  all  alone, 

As  high  as  a  steeple  and  hard  as  a  stone. 

I  '11  roll  up  a  snowball  as  round  as  the  moon, 

And  big  as  the  sun  when  he  shines  out  at  noon. 

I'll  make  a  great  snow-man,  so  tall  and  so  grand 

He  can  hold  a  whole  boy  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

Here  I  go!  See  me  fly!  One  and  all,  look  at  me! 

I  'm  a  Snowflake  from  Cloudland  —  at  last  I  am  free ! " 

He  drifted  to  earth  like  a  feather  afloat, 

A  gallant  young  sailor,  a  breeze  for  a  boat, 

When  a  wonderful  flower  appeared  to  his  view, 

All  dewy  with  fragrance,  all  brilliant  of  hue. 

He  longed  to  caress  it,  give  one  kiss  so  light, 

He  yearned  just  to  touch  it,  and  paused  in  his  flight  — 

Alas,  for  the  snowflake  —  ambition  grew  weak, 

He  died  for  the  rose  on  a  soft  baby  cheek! 


46 


THE  GOOSE  FAIR  AT  WARSAW 

Hiss!  Hiss!  Quack!  Quack! 

The  geese  are  trooping  to  Warsaw! 
In  Warsaw  there's  a  giant  Fair, 
And  through  the  chill  December  air, 
O'er  hills  and  uplands  brown  and  bare, 
Waddling  here  and  waddling  there, 

The  geese  go  forth  to  Warsaw. 

Hiss!  Hiss!  Quack!  Quack! 

The  geese  are  trooping  to  Warsaw! 
For  every  winter,  I  've  been  told, 
A  Goose  Fair  in  that  town  they  hold, 
And  be  they  young  or  be  they  old, 
Sweet  maiden  geese,  or  ganders  bold, 

They  all  must  fare  to  Warsaw. 

Hiss!  Hiss!  Quack!  Quack! 

The  geese  are  trooping  to  Warsaw! 
A  million  geese,  or  so  they  say, 
In  noisy  flocks  are  on  the  way. 
There'll  be  the  very  deuce  to  pay 
47 


THE  GOOSE  FAIR  AT  WARSAW 

If  such  an  army  goes  astray, 
Of  geese  that  tramp  to  Warsaw. 

Hiss!  Hiss!  Quack!  Quack! 

The  geese  are  trooping  to  Warsaw! 
The  goose-herds  drive  them,  all  a-row, 
And  very  well  indeed  they  know 
That  geese  can  never  barefoot  go, 
O'er  frozen  ground  and  eke  on  snow, 

The  many  miles  to  Warsaw. 

Hiss!  Hiss!  Quack!  Quack! 

The  geese  are  trooping  to  Warsaw! 
But  ere  they  leave  their  master's  land, 
They  walk  through  tar  and  then  through  sand, 
And  so  on  well-shod  feet  they  stand, 
As,  in  a  feathered  army  grand, 

The  geese  march  on  to  Warsaw. 

Hiss!  Hiss!  Quack!  Quack! 
With  arching  neck  and  curving  back, 
The  booted  geese  go  cackling  down 
To  meet  their  fate  in  Warsaw  town. 
Hiss!  Hiss! 

48 


THE  FAIRY  RING1 

THRONED  on  a  grassy  knoll,  I  watch 

The  elfin  host  come  trooping  by, 
And  hear  the  whir  of  fairy  wings, 

The  goblin  voices,  shrill  and  high. 
Behind  them  glides  a  magic  train 

Of  Kings  and  Princes,  armor-clad, 
And  serving  as  their  squires  bold 

Boots,  Ashiepattle,  Cinderlad. 
With  silken  rustle,  flash  of  gem, 

Queen  and  Czaritsa  sweep  along, 
While  red-capped  Troll  and  rainbow  Sprite 

Peep  out  amid  the  enchanted  throng. 

Ting-ling,  ting-ling,  how  sweet  the  ring, 
Like  golden  bells,  of  fairy  laughter; 

Rap-tap,  rap-tap,  how  sharp  the  clap 
Of  fairy  footfalls  following  after! 

Where  witch-grass  grows  and  fern-seed  lies, 
A  fairy  ring  is  dimly  seen; 

1  From  The   Fairy  Ring.    By  permission  of    Messrs.  Doubleday, 
Page  &  Co. 

49 


THE  FAIRY  RING 

And  there  a  glitt'ring  host  is  met 

To  dance  upon  the  moonlit  green. 
Riquet,  the  Tufted,  lightly  turns 

The  Fair  One  with  the  Golden  Hair; 
And  Prince  Desire  and  Mignonette 

Form  yet  another  graceful  pair. 
Tall  as  a  tower  stands  Galifron; 

The  Desert  Fay,  with  snakes  bedight, 
First  pirouettes  with  him  and  then 

With  wee  Tom  Thumb,  King  Arthur's  Knight. 

Ting-ling,  ting-ling,  how  sweet  the  ring, 
Like  golden  bells,  of  fairy  laughter; 

Rap-tap,  rap-tap,  how  sharp  the  clap 
Of  fairy  footfalls  following  after! 

Sweet,  unseen  harpers  harp  and  sing, 

Faint  elfin  horns  the  air  repeat; 
Rapunzel  shakes  her  shining  braids, 

The  White  Cat  trips  with  velvet  feet. 
Rose-red,  Snow-white,  the  faithful  Bear, 

Cross  hands  with  gallant  Percinet; 
While  Tattercoats,  in  turn,  salutes 

Yvon,  the  Fearless,  and  Finette. 

50 


THE  FAIRY  RING 

—  But  hark!  the  cock  begins  to  crow; 

The  darkness  turns  to  day,  and  where 
The  fairy  dancers  trod  the  green, 

Now  is  the  space  but  empty  air. 


51 


I  WONDER!1 

I  WONDER  if,  in  Samarcand, 
Grave  camels  kneel  in  golden  sand, 
Still  lading  bales  of  magic  spells, 
And  charms  a  lover's  wisdom  tells, 
To  fare  across  the  desert  main 
And  bring  the  Princess  home  again  — 
I  wonder! 

I  wonder  in  Japan  to-day 
If  grateful  beasts  find  out  the  way 
To  those  who  succored  them  in  pain, 
And  bring  their  blessings  back  again; 
If  cranes  and  sparrows  take  the  shape, 
And  all  the  ways  of  mortals  ape  — 
I  wonder! 

In  Bagdad  may  there  still  be  found 
That  blackish  powder,  finely  ground, 
Which  changes  all  who  on  it  feast, 
Monarch  or  slave,  to  bird  or  beast? 

1  From  Tales  of  Wonder.  By  permission  of  Messrs.  Doubleday, 
Page  &  Co. 

52 


I  WONDER! 

Do  Caliphs  taste  and,  unafraid, 
Turn  storks  and  weeping  night-owls  aid? 
I  wonder! 

I  wonder  if  in  far  Cathay 
The  nightingale  still  trills  her  lay 
Beside  the  Porcelain  Palace  door, 
And  courtiers  praise  her  as  before? 
If  emperors  dream  of  bygone  things, 
And,  musing,  weep  the  while  she  sings? 
I  wonder! 

Such  things  have  never  chanced  to  me. 
I  wonder  if,  to  eyes  that  see, 
These  magic  visions  still  appear 
In  daily  living,  now  and  here? 
If  every  flower  is  touched  with  glory? 
If  e'en  the  grass-blades  tell  a  story? 
I  wonder! 


EVERYBODY'S  BABY 

PRAY,  where  does  the  bonniest  baby  dwell, 
The  sweetest  that  ever  did  grow? 

Say,  where  shall  I  find  it,  now  truthfully  tell, 
Please  show  me  the  way  I  must  go. 

The  bonniest  baby  that  ever  did  grow, 
Without  a  "perhaps,"  or  a  "maybe" 

It  is  hers,  it  is  mine,  it  is  his,  it  is  thine; 
Oh,  it 's  everybody's  baby! 

But  choices  in  babies  there  surely  must  be, 
Though  all  may  be  charming  and  pretty; 

The  fairest,  the  rarest,  the  dearest  of  all, 
Must  needs  be  the  theme  of  my  ditty. 

The  very  same  story  I  can  but  repeat, 
Without  a  "perhaps,"  or  a  "maybe," 

It  is  hers,  it  is  mine,  it  is  his,  it  is  thine; 
Oh,  it 's  everybody's  baby  I 

There  is  n't  a  baby  on  earth,  you  maintain, 
That  is  n't  a  duck  and  a  treasure, 
54 


EVERYBODY'S  BABY 

A  beauty,  a  jewel,  a  poppet,  a  pet, 
The  life  of  the  house  and  its  pleasure? 

/  stoutly  maintain  it;  I  state  it  again, 
Without  a  "perhaps,"  or  a  "maybe," 

It  is  hers,  it  is  mine,  it  is  his,  it  is  thine, 
It  is  everybody's  baby  I 


55 


WHICH  IS  THE  ROYAL  BABY?1 

A  CRADLE  of  gold  has  the  Czarevitch, 
With  gold-leaf  drapery  shrouded; 

Two  chairs,  with  a  pillow,  my  baby's  bed 
In  a  tenement  chamber  crowded; 

But  my  pretty  one  nestles  as  softly  down 

As  the  wee  little  lad  that's  born  to  a  crown  — 
So,  which  is  the  royal  baby? 

In  Caucasus  linen  the  Czarevitch  goes, 
And  wonderful  diamonds  hold  it; 

This  treasure  of  mine  wears  a  cotton  gown, 
And  ribbons  of  blue  enfold  it; 

But  his  eyes  shine  out  from  a  kingly  face, 

And  he  wears  his  robe  with  a  sov'reign  grace,  - 
So,  which  is  the  royal  baby? 

Tall  Cossacks  keep  watch  o'er  the  Czarevitch, 
And  sentries  are  set  at  his  portal; 

My  little  one  has  but  a  single  guard,  — 
He  who  keepeth  all  things  mortal; 

1  Written  in  1905 
56 


WHICH  IS  THE  ROYAL  BABY? 

But  nobody  grudges  my  baby's  life 
Like  the  Russian  princeling's,  born  to  strife,  — 
So,  which  is  the  royal  baby? 

Three  nurses,  they  say,  has  the  Czarevitch, 
With  degrees  from  a  royal  college. 

Alas,  for  my  sweeting!  He  has  but  one, 
And  love  is  her  only  knowledge! 

But  the  Queen  of  the  Russias  may  not  stay 

With  her  prince,  like  me,  for  the  livelong  day,  — 
So,  which  is  the  royal  baby? 


57 


FLOWER  SONG 

(Adapted  from  Froebel) 

WHY  is  the  flower's  breath  so  sweet? 

Ah,  who  can  tell  the  reason! 
Perhaps  the  angel-children  fair, 
Come  in  the  blossom  season, 
And  with  their  blessed  hands  they  touch 
Each  bud  so  small, 
Each  posy  tall;  — 
To  think  so  were  no  treason. 

No  baby  eye,  however  bright, 

May  see  their  garments  flowing, 
Among  the  blooms  they  softly  pass, 
Rich  odors  round  them  strowing, 
Ah,  honey-sweet  the  flower  they  touched! 
Sweet  as  the  breeze 
That  rocks  the  trees 
When  apple-buds  are  blowing. 


SWEET  SLEEP 1 

SWEET  sleep,  fleet  sleep, 
Come  to  Baby  here! 

With  thy  calm  hand, 

With  thy  cool  hand, 

Touch  these  eyelids  dear. 

Dream-land,  gleam-land, 
Ope  thy  golden  doors. 

Let  these  wee  feet, 

Let  these  soft  feet, 

Tread  thy  rainbow  floors. 

White  wings,  bright  wings, 
Baby,  guard  thy  bed. 

Angels  watch  thee, 

Angels  ward  thee, 

Blessings  'round  thee  shed. 

1  Music:  Beethoven's  "  Sonata  Pathetique."  Opus  13. 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FLAG 

FIVESCORE  and  forty  years  ago, 
Fivescore  and  forty  years,  — 

This  land  was  but  an  infant,  then, 
The  child  of  blood  and  tears. 

To-day  a  mighty  nation, 

A  hundred  million  souls 
Are  nurtured  by  her  splendid  strength, 

Are  mustered  on  her  rolls. 

But  even  in  that  long  ago, 
That  time  of  stress  and  strife, 

When  Liberty,  beset  by  foes, 
Was  battling  for  her  life, 

E'en  then,  they  waved  a  standard, 
They  made  Britannia  yield; 

The  crosses  of  her  patron  saints 
Still  blazoned  on  its  field. 

But  for  new  times,  new  customs; 

Columbia,  from  her  throne, 
With  goddess-pride  demanded 

A  banner  of  her  own. 
60 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FLAG 

The  Continental  Congress, 

O'erheard  Columbia's  call 
And  to  fulfill  her  mandate 

Its  members  gathered  all. 

"Resolved,"  they  vowed  in  conclave,  — 

So  history  relates. 
"A  proud  new  Flag  befits  the  pride 

Of  these  United  States. 

"Its  stripes  of  white  and  crimson 

Shall  thirteen  states  unite; 
The  Union  be  denoted 

By  thirteen  stars  of  white." 

They  sought  no  novel  colors; 

What  colors  should  there  be 
Save  white  for  Faith  and  blue  for  Hope 

And  red  for  Liberty? 

And  when  they'd  planned  the  banner, 
The  Fathers  straight  went  down 

With  Washington  to  Betsy  Ross, 
Of  Philadelphy  town. 
61 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FLAG 

Her  needlework  was  noted 
Wherever  art  was  prized; 

The  Flags  she  wrought  were  famous, 
Her  skill  was  recognized. 

So  Betsy,  blooming  Betsy, 

A  patriot's  widow,  she, 
Was  first  to  cut  and  fashion 

The  Flag  of  Liberty. 

Oh,  Betsy,  blessed  Betsy, 
What  name  or  fame  can  be 

So  sweet  as  yours  who  'broidered 
The  Banner  of  the  Free? 

The  Flag  your  art  created, 

Where'er  it  be  unfurled, 
Proclaims  the  Rights  of  Freemen, 

The  Safety  of  the  World. 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  FLAG 

CHILD  speaks: 

FLAG  of  our  Country, 
Our  red,  white,  and  blue, 

Say,  whence  are  thy  colors  — 
Each  wonderful  hue? 

FLAG  speaks: 

Deep  in  the  sunset  sky, 

When  light  was  dying, 
Streamed  crimson  banners,  like 

Wild  armies  flying. 
Where,  'twixt  two  bands  of  gray, 

One  bar  lay  flaming, 
Leaned  I  and  plucked  it  out, 

Mine  for  the  claiming. 

CHILD  speaks: 

Flag  of  our  Country, 

Right  well  hast  thou  done! 

Thy  red  glows  like  rubies, 
Like  heart  of  the  sun. 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  FLAG 

FLAG  speaks: 

When  Summer  lays  her  hand, 

Softly  caressing, 
Over  the  rounded  earth, 

Leaving  her  blessing, 
White  sail  the  clouds  above, 

Clear  as  the  morning; 
From  these  I  chose  me  one 

For  mine  adorning. 

CHILD  speaks: 

Flag  of  our  Country, 
Thy  heav'n-pure  white, 

Like  crystal  in  sunshine, 
It  dazzles  the  sight! 

FLAG  speaks: 

Yet  there  remains  my  blue, 

Jewel-besprinkled, 
Like  to  some  dusky  pool, 

Wltere  the  stars  twinkled. 
Night  doffed  her  misty  veil 

When  all  were  sleeping, 
64 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  FLAG 

Unclasped  her  starry  crown, 
Gave  to  my  keeping. 

CHILD  speaks: 

Flag  of  our  Country, 
Thy  blue  is  more  rare 

Than  turquoise  or  gentian; 
'T  is  measureless  air! 

FLAG  speaks: 
Child,  may  my  brilliant  hues, 

Chosen  from  heaven, 
Serve  as  thy  benison, 

Prove  as  thy  leaven; 
Flaming  may  be  thy  heart, 

Loving  and  giving, 
Clear  as  the  stars  thy  will, 

Snow-white  thy  living! 


65 


PROTECT  THE  FLAG 

WE  hail  with  delight  a  tattered  flag 
That's  darkened  with  battle-stains. 

But  never  one  that's  a  battered  flag, 
The  victim  of  storms  and  rains. 

We  may  wave  a  banner,  service-torn, 

That  led  in  a  gallant  fray, 
But  flaunt  no  ensign  that's  weather-worn, 

No  bunting  that's  had  its  day. 

The  flag  that  has  served  is  a  sacred  flag, 

No  matter  how  worn  it  be; 
The  one  that's  neglected  is  nobody's  flag, 

That  nobody  cares  to  see. 

Protect  "Old  Glory,"  nor  let  it  rack, 

Like  a  storm-rent  sail  at  sea; 
No  slight  must  sully,  no  insult  stain 

The  star-sown  flag  of  the  Free. 


66 


A  COLLAR  OF  HONOR 

IN  France,  sunny  France,  far  away  o'er  the  sea, 
There  are  things  that  they  do  rather  better  than  we; 
Perhaps  these  are  many,  perhaps  but  a  few  — 
Be  that  as  it  may,  there's  one  thing  that  they  do: 
They  recognize  merit  where'er  it  is  found 
And  ever  its  praises  are  willing  to  sound; 
And  even  a  dog,  if  he  act  well  his  part, 
Is  held  in  esteem  in  the  popular  heart. 
You  feel  it,  you  know  it,  you  see  that  it's  so, 
When  you  meet  in  the  street,  as  you  stroll  to  and  fro, 
The  dogs  with  their  collars  of  honor. 

A  dog  who  has  rescued  in  perilous  strife 
A  poor  human  creature,  and  saved  him  his  life, 
Is  counted  thereafter  a  ward  of  the  state, 
The  charge  of  officials,  from  petty  to  great. 
His  bed  and  his  board  are  forever  assured; 
In  health  he  is  tended,  in  illness  he's  cured. 
A  band  of  bright  metal  he  wears  round  his  throat, 
And  pride  of  it  shows  in  each  hair  of  his  coat. 

67 


A  COLLAR  OF  HONOR 

You  feel  it,  you  know  it,  you  see  that  it 's  so, 
When  you  meet  in  the  street,  as  you  stroll  to  and  fro, 
The  dogs  with  their  collars  of  honor. 

At  Brest,  should  you  go  there,  as  I  did  one  night,  — 
'T  is  a  post  of  the  navy  and  well  worth  a  sight,  — 
A  Newfoundland  dog  you  may  happen  to  meet, 
A  hero  whose  praises  the  sailors  repeat. 
So  many  he 's  rescued  from  tempest  and  wreck 
That  a  grand  decoration  he  wears  at  his  neck. 
It  hangs  from  his  collar,  and  when  it  is  seen 
He  is  gravely  saluted  by  each  bold  marine. 
E'en  sentries  do  homage  when  trots  up  and  down, 
Bejeweled,  beribboned,  this  pride  of  the  town, 
This  dog  with  his  collar  of  honor. 


68 


HE  IS  GRAVELY  SALUTED  BY  EACH  BOLD  MARINE 


THE  CHILDREN'S  SHIP 

(Presented  to  the  Picture-Book  Fund  for  French  Children) 

WHAT  ship  is  this  comes  speeding  on? 

They  say  she's  bound  for  France. 
Why,  sir,  she's  called  the  "Children's  Ship 

And  every  wave's  a-dance 
To  push  her  swift  across  the  sea, 

For  over  there,  they  say, 
There's  hosts  of  homeless  little  folk, 

Who  weep  instead  of  play. 

And  what's  her  freight,  my  little  man, 

What  cargo  does  she  bear? 
Is't  food  to  eat,  or  milk  to  drink, 

Or  clothes  for  babes  to  wear? 
Why,  sir,  our  ship  has  none  of  these! 

French  children  all  are  sad; 
We're  sending  heaps  of  laughing-stock 

And  stuff  to  make  them  glad. 

Our  ship  is  crammed  with  savings-banks, 
From  turret  down  to  hold, 


THE  CHILDREN'S  SHIP 

And  some  are  full  of  silver  coins 

And  some  are  full  of  gold, 
This  splendid  treasure  we've  amassed 

And  all  is  freely  sent 
To  buy  those  children  picture-books, 

And  bring  them  back  content. 

They  say  the  French,  poor  little  things, 

Can't  read  an  English  word, 
But  picture-books  are  in  a  tongue 

That  every  one  has  heard. 
We've  saved  our  pennies,  day  by  day, 

Nor  given  toys  a  glance 
And  now  the  money '11  change  to  smiles 

For  little  folk  in  France. 


70 


SOLDIER  OR  SLACKER 

IT  is  n't  because  he  carries  a  gun 

And  sleeps  in  a  tent  when  the  day  is  done, 

That  a  man  is  called  a  soldier; 
Nor  because  he  marches,  with  head  held  high 
And  a  swift  salute  when  the  flag  goes  by, 

For  none  of  these  make  a  soldier. 

'T  is  because  he  heeds  when  an  order's  heard, 
Because  he  obeys  it  with  never  a  word, 

That  a  man  is  called  a  soldier; 
Because  his  weapons  are  shining  bright, 
His  courage  steady  from  morn  till  night,  — 

For  these  are  the  signs  of  a  soldier. 

'T  is  slackers  who  argue  and  fail  to  obey, 

'T  is  slackers  who  pout  when  they  can't  have  their 

way, 

They're  not  for  the  life  of  a  soldier. 
'T  is  slackers  who  idle  and  won't  do  their  bit, 
They  never  could  fight,  for  they  have  n't  the  grit, 
Oh,  valor  it  takes  for  a  soldier! 

71 


LEARNING  TO  KNIT 

I  WANT  so  much  to  learn  to  knit 
That  Grandma  said  if  I  would  sit 
Quite  patiently,  nor  fret,  nor  pout, 
Should  all  my  work  be  raveled  out, 
She'd  try  to  teach  me,  for  I  ought 
To  learn  while  still  a  child,  she  thought. 

"You  hold  the  needles  so,"  she  said, 
"And  round  your  finger  wind  your  thread. 

Take  up  a  stitch  and  knit  it  plain, 

And  then  another  one  again; 

Be  sure  and  do  not  knit  too  tight, 

Keep  all  the  stitches  well  in  sight." 

"Don't  split  a  stitch,  don't  twist  the  wool; 
Slip  off  the  loop  and  never  pull; 
Don't  drop  a  stitch,  do  what  you  will, 
For  such  a  gap  no  art  can  fill. 
See  that  the  work  looks  smooth  and  plain; 
If  rough,  then  all  your  toil's  in  vain!" 
72 


LEARNING  TO  KNIT 

The  while  she  talked,  her  fingers  flew 
As  swift  as  birds  across  the  blue; 
Her  needles  twinkled  like  the  rain 
That  dashes  down  the  window-pane; 
Her  ball  went  round  at  such  a  pace 
You  held  your  breath  to  see  it  race. 

I  wonder  if  in  Grandma's  day 
Their  grandmas  taught  in  such  a  way! 
A  modern  child 's  too  slow,  by  far, 
To  learn  from  such  a  shooting-star; 
As  well  a  rabbit  might,  for  fun, 
Instruct  a  tortoise  how  to  run! 


73 


THE  TIMID  OYSTER 

LOOK  upon  the  timid  oyster, 
Ever  growing  moist  and  moister, 
As  he  hides  within  his  cloister 

By  the  sea. 

To  all  common  human  seeing, 
We  can  hardly  help  agreeing, 
Never  yet  was  calmer  being 

Than  is  he! 

Yet  with  nerves  he  has  his  troubles, 
And  when  thunder  boils  and  bubbles, 
Then  his  nervousness  redoubles, 

So  they  say. 

He  has  nowhere  to  betake  him, 
When  the  thunder-terrors  shake  him, 
No  asylum  can  he  make  him, 

Far  away. 

Timid,  shrinking  little  oyster, 
Do  you  never  yearn  to  royster, 
In  your  damp  and  dusky  cloister, 
'Mid  the  storm? 

74 


THE  TIMID  OYSTER 

As  we  tenderly  inspect  you, 
How  we  hanker  to  protect  you, 
From  all  storm-winds  to  deflect  you, 
Keep  you  warm. 

Come  to  us  when  noise  annoys  you, 
When  sweet  hope  no  longer  buoys  you, 
When  the  thunder-peal  destroys  you, 

Come  at  will. 

Condiments  we  '11  have  to  meet  you, 
Ice  and  lemon  bring  to  greet  you, 
But  though  grandly  thus  we'll  treat  you, 

We '11  be  still! 


75 


DINNER-TIME 

MY  mother  says  with  changing  days 
Come  just  as  many  changing  ways; 
There's  change  in  dresses,  change  in  hats 
And  eke  in  balls  and  cricket-bats. 
Even  in  words  the  fashions  vary; 
What  once  was  fine,  grows  ordinary. 
Such  questions  trouble  not  my  head, 
But  there's  one  thing  I  really  dread! 
If  dinner-time  gets  so  belated 
That  every  child  on  earth  is  fated 
To  go  to  bed  before  it's  ready, 
How  can  he  keep  his  courage  steady? 
In  Froissart's  time,  Kings  dined  at  ten, 
The  morning  ten,  of  course,  and  when 
Their  subjects  called  on  them  at  five, 
They  found  them  only  half  alive, 
With  nightcaps  on,  and  yawning  so 
That  courtiers  quick  prepared  to  go. 
Louis  Quatorze,  the  Monarch  Grand, 
Had  matters  vastly  better  planned. 
At  twelve  o'clock  he  dined  and  wined; 
76 


DINNER-TIME 

As  good  a  time  as  one  could  find! 
Charles  Second  dined  at  one,  an  hour 
That  lasted  long  as  did  his  power, 
For  when  he  ceased  to  dine  at  all 
At  two  they  ate  in  palace-hall. 
At  four  o'clock,  in  Cowper's  days, 
The  meal  was  served,  the  poet  says, 
A  wretched  time,  mistake  complete; 
A  time  to  play  and  not  to  eat! 
When  Waterloo  had  come  and  gone, 
When  gentle  Peace  ruled  Albion, 
And  "Boney"  ceased  to  play  his  tricks, 
The  dinner-hour  was  changed  to  six. 
With  glory  fed,  the  nation  well 
Might  thus  retard  the  dinner-bell. 
Dinner  at  six  for  long  held  sway, 
But  seven's  an  hour  approved  to-day, 
And  mother  asks  her  friends  at  eight. 
I  hear  the  doom  pronounced  by  Fate  — 
Soon  will  they  dine  at  midnight  deep, 
When  every  child  is  wrapped  in  sleep. 


77 


THE  WANDERING  EELS1 

THE  times  are  out  of  joint,  my  dears, 

The  world  no  longer  wags 
As  once  it  did  when  we  were  young; 

Domestic  virtue  lags. 
The  lads  are  always  in  the  street, 

The  lasses  far  from  home, 
And  though  you'd  scarce  believe  it,  dears, 

E'en  eels  begin  to  roam! 

Time  was  when  every  eel,  my  dears, 

Went  early  to  his  bed, 
And  such  a  thing  as  midnight  swim 

Ne'er  entered  in  his  head. 
But  now  by  day  he  simply  squirms 

Where  shallow  waters  be, 

1  In  order  to  prevent  eels  from  leaving  the  coasts  of  Denmark,  the 
government  is  laying  a  cable  between  the  mainland  and  an  adjacent 
island,  which  is  to  be  strung  with  electric  lamps.  This  luminous  bar- 
rier is  to  keep  the  eels,  who  travel  only  at  night,  from  emigrating  to 
deep  water. 

78 


THE  WANDERING  EELS 

WTiile  when  the  curfew  tolls,  my  dears, 
He  wriggles  out  to  sea! 

In  Denmark  they're  so  bad,  my  dears, 

These  vicious,  vagrant  eels, 
That  government  has  laid  a  plot 

Which  deepest  art  conceals, 
To  make  them  think  that  day  is  night, 

Or  rather,  night  is  day, 
For  only  in  the  dark,  my  dears, 

Will  they  set  on  their  way. 

From  Denmark  to  its  aisles,  my  dears, 

And  from  its  headlands  steep, 
They've  laid  a  cable  strung  with  lamps, 

Illumining  the  deep. 
The  sportive  eels  at  night  come  out 

To  run  away  to  sea, 
And  finding  that  it's  light,  my  dears, 

Slip  back  again  for  tea! 

A  moral  there  is  hid,  my  dears, 

Within  this  watery  tale, 
And  just  as  brightly  does  it  shine 

As  any  fishes'  scale. 
79 


THE  WANDERING  EELS 

Whene'er  you  leave  your  house  at  night, 

With  frolics  in  your  head, 
And  find  the  streets  alight,  my  dears, 

Just  toddle  home  to  bed! 


80 


EASTER  BLOSSOMS 

FAR  away,  down  in  the  dark  of  the  earth 
While  the  cold  March  winds  are  blowing, 

The  grasses  are  making  their  way  to  birth, 
And  the  Easter  flowers  are  growing. 

So  deep  in  the  heart  of  each  little  child, 
No  matter  what  may  be  the  weather, 

Kind  thoughts  may  be  growing,  and  virtues  mild, 
Be  twining  and  blooming  together. 


81 


THE  LIFE-PRESERVERS 

IT  happened  on  Ascension  Day; 
She  came  along  the  flowery  way, 

A  tiny  cricket  bearing. 
He  lodged  within  a  cage  of  wood, 
Though  prisoned,  yet  in  heartsome  mood, 

For  strong  his  chirp  and  daring. 

'T  was  Florence  in  a  radiant  spring, 
Ah,  could  my  verses  to  you  bring 

A  glimpse  of  half  its  wonder! 
Could  make  you  taste  the  honeyed  air, 
And  breathe  the  flowers  everywhere, 

The  green  grass  waving  under. 

The  cricket  shone  as  black  as  jet; 
No  less  the  locks  that  waving  met 

The  little  maiden's  shoulder. 
Her  voice,  at  first,  was  scarcely  heard  — 
A  cricket's  voice,  from  nesting  stirred  — 

But  soon,  like  his,  grow  bolder. 

Ne'er  have  I  seen  a  cricket  caged," 
I  said,  "nor  as  a  pet  engaged, 
Although  a  household  blessing!" 

82 


THE  LIFE-PRESERVERS 

'Good  sir,"  she  lisped,  "Ascension  morn 
Must  every  child  in  Florence  born, 
A  cricket  be  possessing. 

'And  early,  early  do  we  look 
In  every  park  and  grassy  nook, 

Where  crickets  breed  and  nourish; 
And  when  they're  caught  and  prisoned  here, 
We  '11  live  and  thrive  another  year, 

If  through  the  day  they  flourish!" 

:My  little  maid,  it  cannot  be 
A  cricket  holds  your  life  in  fee 

And  all  on  him  you're  chancing!" 
:Old  man,"  she  cried,  "there's  not  a  doubt, 
All  Florentines  have  found  it  out!" 

And  down  the  road  went  dancing. 

I  shook  my  head.  The  world  is  rife 
With  toil  and  care;  a  bubble's  life, 

And  death  will  come  to  prick  it; 
But  of  all  fragile  things  that  be 
Most  frail  is  that,  it  seems  to  me, 

Which  hangs  upon  a  cricket! 
83 


TALKING  THROUGH  THE  HAT 

OB 

THE  MANNERS  OP  KOREA 

THE  not  uncommon  saying,  "You  are  talking  through 
your  hat!" 

Must  have  come  from  old  Korea,  where  they're  quite 
adept  in  that. 

All  the  head-gear 's  telescopic  in  the  ancient  Hermit- 
land, 

And  may  be  shot  up  at  pleasure  when  you  meet  a 
noble  grand. 

For  a  commoner  it's  lowered;  even  then  't  is  not  so 
small, 

For  it's  three  feet  in  diameter  and  seven  inches  tall. 

Say  you  're  walking  of  a  morning  in  an  old  Korean 
street, 

And  a  grandly  hatted  gentleman  you  happen  for  to 
meet; 

Should  his  covering  be  yellow,  with  a  kind  of  toad- 
stool brim, 

You  may  know  he  is  in  mourning,  and  may  straight 
condole  with  him. 

•      84 


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TALKING  THROUGH  THE  HAT 


TALKING  THROUGH  THE  HAT 

His  may  be  a  recent  sorrow,  or  persistence  of  an 

old; 
But  in  tones  of  buff  and  amber  his  bereavement  will 

be  told. 

Turn  a  corner  and,  advancing,  you  may  see  a  smil- 
ing face, 

Topped  by  hat  bedecked  with  jewels  or  set  off  with 
beaded  lace. 

If  the  trimming's  long  and  ample  and  is  tied  beneath 
the  chin, 

You  may  ask  a  loan  of  money  and  the  favor  hope  to 
win. 

Such  adornment  means  prosperity  and  great  success 
in  life; 

Or  the  stranger  may  be  happy  and  have  chosen  well 
his  wife. 

Should  the  morning  be  uncertain  and  the  wind  a 

wavering  one, 
With  a  mass  of  gathering  shadows  and  capricious 

gleams  of  sun, 
From  the  hats  of  certain  persons  skirts  of  paper  may 

depend, 

85 


TALKING  THROUGH  THE  HAT 

For  to  serve  them  as  umbrellas,  should  a  sudden 

storm  descend. 
The  Korean  Weather  Bureau  thus  is  organized,  you 

see, 
And  may  be  by  all  consulted,  safe  from  any  form  of 

fee. 

If  you're  bidden  to  a  party  in  the  Land  of  Morning 

Calm, 
You  may  proudly  bear  the  missive  in  your  hat  of 

braided  palm. 

Thus  your  status  in  society  is  settled  once  for  all, 
And  you're  sure  to  be  invited  if  Dame  Grundy  gives 

a  ball. 
Hats  may  also  serve  as  bill-boards,  and  upon  them 

you  may  post 
Such  a  bit  of  news  or  gossip  as  may  interest  you  most. 

In  Korea,  then,  the  head-gear's  the  essential  thing 

in  life; 
But  a  man  may  not  assume  one  till  he's  sought  him 

out  a  wife. 
Hats  accompany  betrothal,  as  with  marriage  goes 

a  ring, 

86 


TALKING  THROUGH  THE  HAT 

And  the  safely  plighted  lover  hymns  of  joy  may  fitly 

sing. 
Scorn  a  woman  in  Korea,  and  the  sex  your  scorn 

repays, 
For  with  ribboned  pigtail  hanging,  you  go  hatless 

all  your  days. 


87 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  DOG 

IN  a  sheltered  spot  of  a  sunny  street, 

I  saw  on  a  wintry  morn, 
A  meeting  of  dogs  of  every  degree, 

Both  nobly  and  humbly  born. 
A  paper  thrown  on  the  sidewalk  down 

Engaged  them  all  to  stay, 
And  they  listened  the  while  a  mastiff  read,  — 
"The  dogs  are  having  their  day!" 

"The  place  of  the  dog,"  so  the  paper  said, 
"Has  been  a  precarious  one, 
Dependent  on  birth,  upon  personal  charm, 

And  not  upon  duty  done; 
But  now  that  a  dog  is  judged  by  his  work, 

These  things  have  vanished  away. 
The  mongrel  pup  is  as  good  as  the  rest,  — 
The  dogs  are  having  their  day!" 

"And  what  is  this  work?"  asked  a  tiny  Skye; 
"Is  it  anything  strange  or  new? 
We  always  have  served  with  all  of  our  hearts, 
We  always  have  been  true  blue." 
88 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  DOG 

;  T  is  soldier  work,"  a  Newfoundland  cried, 
"So  all  of  the  papers  say; 
Just  hear  what  the  mastiff  is  going  to  read,  — 
The  dogs  are  having  their  day!" 

;A  shepherd  dog,"  the  chronicle  says, 
"Two  miles  and  a  half  ran  he, 
In  minutes  ten,  through  a  storm  of  shell, 

For  help  for  his  Company. 
A  nameless  dog,  of  no  descent, 

Rushed  into  the  thick  of  the  fray, 
And  dragged  a  wounded  soldier  back,  — 

The  dogs  are  having  their  day!" 

:They  went  as  searchers  through  No  Man's  Land, 

They  guarded  the  loaded  wains; 
Courageous,  loyal,  they  kept  their  watch 

O'er  the  wounded  in  railway  trains; 
They  served  as  sentinels,  none  could  pass 

Where  they  crouched  and  sleepless  lay; 
They  carried  messages  far  and  fast,  — 

The  dogs  are  having  their  day!" 

I  listened  a  while  as  the  mastiff  read, 
For  he  paid  little  heed  to  me, 

89 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  DOG 

And  his  audience  greeted  with  barks  of  joy, 

Each  proof  of  efficiency; 
The  dog-star  is  riding  high,  I  thought, 

And  though  it  was  long  on  the  way, 
The  faithful  at  last  are  receiving  their  meed,  — 

The  dogs  are  having  their  day! 


90 


MEADOW  TALK 

"DON'T  pick  all  the  flowers!"  cried  Daisy  one  day 
To  a  rosy-cheeked  boy  who  was  passing  her  way; 
"If  you  take  every  one,  you  will  very  soon  see 
That  when  next  summer  comes,  not  a  bud  will  there 
be!" 

"Quite  true!"  said  the  Clover, 
"And  over  and  over 

I've  sung  that  same  song, 

To  whoe'er  came  along." 

Quoth  the  Buttercup,  "I 
Have  not  been  at  all  shy 
In  impressing  that  rule 
On  each  child  of  the  school." 

"I've  touched  the  same  subject," 

Said  Timothy  Grass. 
"'Leave  just  a  few  flowers!' 

I  beg,  as  they  pass." 
91 


MEADOW  TALK 

Sighed  a  shy  little  Fern, 

From  her  home  in  the  shade, 
"About  pulling  up  roots, 

What  a  protest  I've  made!" 

"The  children  are  heedless!" 

The  Gentian  declared, 
"When  my  blossom-time  comes, 

Not  a  bud  will  be  spared." 

"Take  courage,  sweet  neighbor!" 

The  Violet  said; 
And  raised  in  entreaty 
Her  delicate  head; 

"The  children  are  thoughtless, 

I  own,  in  my  turn; 
But  if  we  all  teach  them, 
They  cannot  but  learn." 

"The  lesson,"  said  the  Alders, 
"Is  a  simple  one,  indeed, 
Where  no  root  is,  blooms  no  flower, 
Where  no  flower  is,  no  seed." 


MEADOW  TALK 

°T  is  very  well  said!"  chirped  the  Robin, 
From  the  elm  tree  fluttering  down; 

"If  you'll  write  on  your  leaves  such  a  lesson, 
I'll  distribute  them  over  the  town." 

"Oh,  write  it,  dear  Alders!"  the  Innocents  cried, 

Their  pretty  eyes  tearfully  blue, 
"You  are  older  than  we  are;  you're  strong  and 
you  're  wise  — 

There's  none  but  would  listen  to  you!" 

But,  ah!  the  Alders  could  not  write; 

And  though  the  Robin  knew 
The  art  as  well  as  any  bird  — 

Or  so  he  said  —  he  flew 
Straight  up  the  hill  and  far  away, 

Remarking  as  he  went, 
He  had  a  business  errand 

And  was  not  on  pleasure  bent. 

Did  the  children  learn  the  lesson, 
Though  't  was  never  written  down? 

We  shall  know  when,  gay  and  blithesome, 
Lady  Summer  comes  to  town. 
93 


KNOCKING  ON  WOOD 

Tap  on  the  trees  and  the  leaves  will  tell 
Whether  the  fairies  wish  thee  well. 

A  PRIMITIVE  father  once  lived  in  a  wood, 
With  a  primitive  daughter  of  primitive  mood, 
And  a  primitive  wife  who  attended  the  pair 
And  served  them  the  choicest  of  primitive  fare. 
The  primitive  daughter  was  fearful  and  shy 
And  afraid  of  her  life  if  a  hare  rustled  by; 
The  primitive  wife  had  no  valor  at  all 
And  shivered  and  shook  if  a  nut  chanced  to  fall. 

The  father  was  often  away  at  the  chase, 

Or  running  with  danger  an  obstacle  race, 

And  dreaded  a  loss  in  his  primitive  home, 

If  e'er  in  his  absence  a  peril  should  come. 

He  dreaded,  she  dreaded,  they  dreaded  all  three, 

The  sprites  of  the  air  and  the  sprites  of  the  sea, 

The  little  gray  gnomes  that  live  down  in  the  ground 

And  the  gossamer  elves  that  in  flowers  abound. 

It  was  only  the  fairies  that  lived  in  the  trees, 
Whose  spells  could  protect  them  from  evils  like  these; 

94 


KNOCKING  ON  WOOD 

And  so,  as  they  wended  their  primitive  ways, 
And  threaded  the  wood  in  its  devious  maze, 
They'd  knock  on  a  tree  and  would  timidly  say 
To  the  Spirit  who  might  be  within  there  that  day: 
"Fairy  fair,  Fairy  fair,  wish  thou  me  well; 
'Gainst  evil  witcheries  weave  me  a  spell!" 

Then  keen  would  they  listen  with  primitive  ear, 
Their  hearing  made  finer  and  sharper  by  fear; 
And  soon  would  the  leaves  make  a  whisper'd  reply 
"Fear  ye  not,  mortals,  no  harm  shall  come  nigh!" 
Thus  primitive  mother  and  primitive  child 
Protected  themselves  in  the  primitive  wild, 
And  e'en  to  this  day  is  the  practice  made  good 
When,  to  ward  off  disaster,  we  knock  upon  wood. 


95 


THE  ROBIN  AND  THE  ANGLEWORM 

A  PLUMP  and  saucy  Robin 

Was  gayly  hopping  round, 
And  heard  a  ringed  Angleworm 

A-squirming  underground. 
"Oh,  do  my  ears  deceive  me, 

Or  can  it  really  be, 
A  tender,  juicy  luncheon 

Is  waiting  there  for  me?" 
Thus  spake  the  hungry  Robin, 

And  cocked  a  listening  ear, 
An  ear  to  hear  the  grass  grow, 

The  falling  dust  to  hear. 
He  tapped  among  the  grasses 

With  yellow  beak  so  gay, 
"Good-morrow,  neighbor  Angleworm! 

How's  all  with  you  to-day?" 
"I'm  well,  kind  neighbor  Robin; 

The  earth  is  sweetly  damp; 
You're  stepping  just  above  me, 

I  feel  your  noisy  tramp." 
96 


THE  ROBIN  AND  THE  ANGLEWORM 

"Climb  up,  then,  slippery  brother! 

The  rain  is  falling  fast; 
Come  up  and  take  a  bite  with  me 

Until  the  storm  be  past." 
The  earthworm  hurried  upward; 

Said  Robin,  with  a  grin, 
"Well,  now,  you've  troubled  to  come  out, 
I'll  thank  you  to  come  IN!" 


97 


THE  JOLLY  DUGONG 

IT  was  the  jolly  Dugong, 

As  he  sat  on  the  springing  lea, 
And  his  eyes  were  blue  as  the  raven's  wing, 

And  his  hair  was  black  as  the  sea. 

He  piped  and  he  trilled  on  his  baritone  tail, 

Till  the  fishes  began  to  stare; 
And  came,  with  a  skip  o'er  the  shimmering  sand, 

To  beg  for  their  favorite  air. 

Then  he  scratched  his  head  with  his  clammy  claw, 
And  he  smoothed  his  face  with  his  fin, 

While  he  murmured,  "Come  hither,  my  aqueous 

friends, 
And  a  ditty  I  '11  soon  begin." 

So  the  fishes  approached  with  a  festive  flop, 

In  numbers  even  and  odd; 
And  the  halibut  leaned  on  the  pickerel's  arm, 

While  the  trout  escorted  the  cod. 

98 


THE  JOLLY  DUGONG 

As  the  scaly  bevy  gathered  around, 

The  Dugong  unbuckled  his  belt, 
And  he  tuned  his  tail  with  a  tuning  fork, 

Carved  out  of  the  rib  of  a  smelt. 

"Ah,"  he  sighed,  "it  is  really  a  joy  to  receive 

A  mark  of  approval  so  rare, 
For  I  very  well  know  that  a  fish's  applause, 

Is  to  flourish  his  skin  in  the  air." 

Then  he  warbled  in  notes  that  were  merry  and  gay, 
And  in  tones  that  were  clear  as  a  flute, 

And  he  caroled  a  lay  of  the  rolling  deep, 
While  the  fishes  with  joy  were  mute. 

The  song  was  the  one  that  they  loved  the  best, 

And  't  was  quite  a  remarkable  sight, 
When  they  waved  their  skins  in  the  evening  air, 

And  rattled  their  bones  with  delight. 

"O,  Rosy,  my  posy!"  the  sun-fish  said, 

To  a  herring  that  swam  by  his  side, 
"On  similar  music,  we'll  constantly  feed, 

If  you'll  be  but  my  beauteous  bride." 

99 


THE  JOLLY  DUGONG 

"O,  halibut,  walibut!"  whispered  the  cod, 
"What  a  glorious  song  of  the  sea! 
Throw  your  scaly  skin  on  the  sandy  shore, 
And  dance  on  the  wave  with  me." 

The  hours  slipped  by,  and  the  music  went  on, 
While  the  mists  of  the  evening  arose  — 

But  everything  earthly  must  come  to  a  stop, 
And  e'en  such  a  concert  must  close. 

The  Dugong  stopped  singing  —  the  hour  was  late, 

All  hurried  for  skins  to  the  shore; 
5T  was  confusion  and  bustle  —  each  snatched  what 
he  could, 

Half  put  them  on  hind-side  before. 

Old  Flatty,  the  flounder,  went  off  in  a  coat 
That  was  certainly  made  for  the  eel, 

While  Pinky,  the  salmon's,  was  wretched  in  fit, 
And  extremely  unpleasant  in  feel. 

So,  highly  uncomfortable,  each  swam  away, 
With  a  coat  much  too  small,  or  too  great; 

And  just  such  an  accident  may  befall  you, 
If  you  stay  at  a  party  too  late. 
100 


THE  DANDIFIED  MANATEE 

OH,  the  Manatee,  the  Manatee,  — 
What  does  he  do  when  the  winds  blow  free? 
He  seeks  some  spot  where  the  water  's  low, 
And  curls  his  hair  while  the  breezes  blow; 
And  never  a  thought  has  he  in  his  head, 
Except  that  he  knows  when  to  go  to  his  bed  - 
The  Manatee,  the  Manatee. 

Oh,  the  Manatee,  the  Manatee,  — 
What  does  he  do  when  the  tide  runs  free? 
With  a  coral  shoe-brush  under  his  thumb, 
He  glazes  his  fins  with  aluminum. 
What  matter  to  him  the  ocean's  flow. 
He's  not  in  a  mercantile  line  you  know  — 
The  Manatee,  the  Manatee. 

Oh,  the  Manatee,  the  Manatee, 
What  does  he  do  when  the  birds  fly  free? 
As  they  rise  and  dip  and  lazily  flop, 
He  watches  intently,  in  hopes  they  may  drop 
101 


THE  DANDIFIED  MANATEE 

A  band  of  feathers  to  circle  his  throat, 
Or  some  down  for  the  edge  of  his  redingote  — 
The  Manatee,  the  Manatee. 

Oh,  the  Manatee,  the  Manatee, 
What  does  he  do  when  the  ships  sail  free? 
Oh,  far  away  where  the  wave's  at  rest, 
He  searches  for  pearls  to  jewel  his  breast. 
There's  nothing  new  in  the  rig  of  a  ship, 
And  for  sailor  fashions  he  cares  not  a  flip. 
The  Manatee,  the  Manatee. 

Oh,  the  Manatee,  the  Manatee, 
A, very  Beau  Brummell  of  dandies  he! 
His  fins  are  polished,  his  hair  is  curled, 
His  dainty  umbrella  is  properly  furled! 
There's  never  a  porpoise  he  meets  on  the  sea 
But  plaintively  murmurs,  "I  would  I  could  be 
The  bride  of  that  exquisite  Manatee!" 


102 


YOUNG  SUNDAY  HAT 

YOUNG  Sunday  hat, 

On  a  shelf  she  sat, 
All  gay  with  ribbons  and  flowers. 

'T  was  Saturday  night, 

And  the  morning  light 
Would  shine  in  a  few  short  hours. 


"Alas!  "she  said, 
"Far  better  dead 


Than  mewed  up  here  forever. 

No  joy  I  know 

Imprisoned  so, 
And  people  see  me  never! 

"Why  could  n't  I  stay 

In  the  shop  so  gay, 
Where  all  was  so  bright  and  shining; 
Where  all  might  admire, 
With  eager  desire, 
My  ribbons  and  flowers  twining?" 
103 


YOUNG  SUNDAY  HAT 

As  thus  she  sighed, 

The  door  swung  wide, 
A  wee  maid  entered  singing. 

With  hat  and  fan, 

Away  she  ran, 
While  Sunday  bells  were  ringing. 

The  ride  was  long, 
The  wind  was  strong, 

They  passed  above  a  river, 
Whose  waters  deep, 
Whose  banks  so  steep, 

Set  Sunday  hat  a-shiver. 

How  shall  I  tell 

What  straight  befell? 
The  frolic  breezes  caught  her; 

In  spite  of  fears, 

Of  cries  and  tears, 
They  tossed  her  in  the  water. 

She  filled  and  sank 
Close  to  the  bank, 
The  mud  her  sorrows  crowning. 
104 


YOUNG  SUNDAY  HAT 

"Drive  on!"  she  cried, 
"I  can't  be  dried, 
Far  better  leave  me  drowning. 

Now  low  she  lies, 

Where  bull-frogs  wise 
Around  her  crown  are  sitting. 

While  cool  and  slim 

About  her  brim 
The  silver  fish  are  flitting. 


105 


THE  LOLLIPOP  BUSH 

IN  a  garden,  afar  in  a  tropical  clime, 
Where  the  air  is  astir  with  the  lily-bell's  chime, 
And  honey-sweet  breezes  from  Araby  blow, 
There  stands  the  green  bush  where  the  lollipops 
grow. 

Oh,  sugary  lollipops, 

Nectarous  lollipops, 
Best  of  all  sweeties  that  ever  did  grow. 

There,  torrents  of  soda  that  sparkle  and  gleam, 
Dash  foaming  o'er  boulders  of  rosy  ice-cream; 
But  neither  pink  ices,  nor  soda's  cold  flow 
Compare  with  that  bush  where  the  lollipops 
grow. 

Oh,  sugary  lollipops, 

Nectarous  lollipops, 
Best  of  all  sweeties  that  ever  did  grow. 

On  lakes  of  clear  syrup,  the  waffle-boats  ply, 
Past  islands  of  cookies  and  mountains  of  pie, 

106 


THE  LOLLIPOP  BUSH 

But  the  wise,  while  the  voyagers  sail  to  and  fro, 
Remain  by  the  bush  where  the  lollipops  grow. 

Oh,  sugary  lollipops, 

Nectarous  lollipops, 
Best  of  all  sweeties  that  ever  did  grow. 

The  walls  of  this  garden  are  builded  of  buns, 
All  powdered  with  sugar  and  stuck  full  of  plums, 
But  sweeter  than  these,  with  its  fruit  hanging  low, 
Is  that  wonderful  bush  where  the  lollipops  grow, 

Oh,  sugary  lollipops, 

Nectarous  lollipops, 
Best  of  all  sweeties  that  ever  did  grow. 


107 


DIFFERENCE  IN  TASTES 

THERE  are  plenty  of  things  that  love  the  rain 

And  relish  a  thorough  wetting, 
They  laugh  and  sing  in  a  driving  storm, 

For  their  hearts'  delight  they  're  getting. 
"More  wet!  more  wet!"  croaks  the  frog  in  the  pond; 

"More  water!  more  water!"  the  flowers; 
"You  never  can  fall  too  long  for  me!" 

Cries  the  thirsty  dust  to  the  showers; 

The  puddle  dimples  at  every  drop; 

The  yellow-billed  ducks  go  swimming; 
The  leaves  of  the  trees  are  clapping  their  hands; 

With  laughter  the  brook  is  brimming; 
The  grasses  welcome  the  pit-a-pat, 

For  beauty  and  strength  they're  gaining; 
But  Water-cart  mopes  by  himself  at  home, 

For  he  can't  go  out  when  it's  raining! 


108 


THE  WORD  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

(An  Anecdote  of  Sir  William  Francis  Patrick  Napier:  1786-1860) 

TWILIGHT  was  falling  in  the  English  village, 
The  green  deserted  and  the  loiterers  sped, 

When  down  the  quiet  road  there  rang  a  footstep, 
Martial,  heroic,  as  in  battle  bred. 

Musing  on  glories  past,  the  gallant  soldier 
Savored  the  freshness  of  the  evening  air, 

When  to  his  ears  there  came  a  childish  grieving, 
A  burst  of  sobs,  a  tempest  of  despair. 

Close  to  the  stream  that  rippled  by  the  goose-green, 
Down  in  the  grass  there  lay  a  flaxen  head,  — 

And  just  beside  the  curls  a  broken  pitcher 
Proclaimed  the  reason  of  the  tear-drops  shed. 

The  general  bowed  his  splendid  height,  and,  softly, 
"What  is  it,  child?"  he  asked  the  little  maid. 

Two  wet  blue  eyes  looked  up  at  him,  in  answer: 
"My  pitcher!  Will  you  mend  it,  sir?"  she  said. 

109 


THE  WORD  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

The  soldier  smiled.  "I  fear  't  is  past  the  mending; 

But  grieve  no  more,  't  was  not  of  porcelain  rare. 
Take  heart.  Here's  sixpence  bright  to  buy  another." 

He  searched  his  pockets.  Not  a  coin  was  there! 

With  parted  lips  the  child  stood,  all  expectant, 
The  general,  laughing,  owned  his  shabby  plight. 

"But  have  no  fear,  my  sweet,"  he  cried.  "I'll  meet 

thee, 
At  this  same  place  and  hour,  to-morrow  night." 

The  little  maid  looked  in  his  face  and  trusted; 

Smiling  her  thanks  she  slipped  away  alone. 
The  soldier's  homeward  march  was  sweetly  lighted 

By  the  pure,  simple  faith  that  she  had  shown. 

His  lodging  reached,  an  invitation  waited, 
Flattering,  courtly,  for  the  morrow's  night; 

The  very  selfsame  hour  at  which  he'd  trysted 
The  village  child  beside  the  streamlet  bright. 

"You'll  go,  Sir  William?"  asked  the  anxious  serv- 
ant. 

"Nobles  alone  are  bid,  and  soldiers  of  the  Queen!" 

110 


"MY  PITCHER!  WILL  YOU  MEND  IT,  SIR? 


THE  WORD  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

"To-morrow  night  I'm  pledged,"  the  general 

answered, 
"To  meet  a  child  upon  the  village  green." 

"To  meet  a  little  child?"  the  servant  faltered, 
And,  half -believing,  quick  the  answer  heard: 

"Monarch  or  child,  to  whomsoe'er  he  gives  it, 
A  gentleman  and  soldier  keeps  his  word!" 


Ill 


NO  MAN'S  LAND 

IN  No  Man's  Land,  five  hundred  and  three,  — 
Of  course  you'll  suppose  that  the  date's  B.C. 
They  published  a  law  through  the  country  round, 
A  law  which  made  great  trouble,  they  found, 
That  in  all  the  schools  all  over  the  land, 
They  must  keep  order.  You  understand 
How  hard  it  was  for  the  children! 

If  a  boy  reached  school  a  second  late 

He  stood  all  day  at  the  entrance  gate. 

If  a  girl  wrote  notes  in  the  study-hour, 

She  was  prisoned  high  in  the  old  church  tower. 

There  was  wailing  and  weeping  from  morn  till  night, 

They  always  did  wrong,  they  could  n't  do  right. 

Oh,  hard  indeed  for  the  children! 

\ 

Playing  tunes  on  the  points  of  pens, 
Grunting  and  growling  like  beasts  in  dens, 
Whoever  did  this  would  regret  it  forever 
For  his  head  would  be  bagged  in  a  manner  most  clever. 
If  they  missed  a  word  from  a  lesson  set 
Not  a  scrap  of  food  did  the  poor  things  get. 
Oh,  this  was  hard  for  the  children ! 

112 


NO  MAN'S  LAND 

A  girl  was  in  a  sorrowful  state 

If  she  pictured  her  neighbors  on  the  slate, 

A  book  full  of  problems  in  Long  Division 

They  made  her  work  out  with  perfect  precision. 

If  a  boy  was  riotous  on  the  stairs 

He  spent  his  recess  in  a  pit  full  of  bears, 

Oh,  hard  it  was  for  the  children. 

Laughter  and  whispering;  school-desks  scarred 
All  had  penalties  just  as  hard. 
Youthful  opinions  of  teachers  in  verse, 
The  sentence  for  these  was  rather  worse. 
In  short,  as  you  '11  readily  comprehend, 
Their  mischievous  wills  must  break  or  bend. 
Oh,  was  n't  it  hard  for  the  children! 

If  you  had  but  lived  in  No  Man's  Land 

Your  manners  would  soon  have  been  taken  in  hand. 

But  though  you're  saved  from  the  dolorous  fate 

Of  being  punished  early  and  late, 

It 's  just  as  well  to  follow  the  plan 

Of  being  always  as  good  as  you  can. 

Though  that's  rather  hard  for  children. 


113 


KAMATU  SAN  AND  'LIZABETH  ANN 

O  KAMATU  SAN, 

Afar  in  Japan, 
Oh,  a  brown  little  girl  is  she; 

But  'Lizabeth  Ann 

In  west  Michigan, 
Is  as  fair  as  a  child  can  be. 

O  Kamatu  goes 

As  gay  as  a  rose, 
In  satin  and  silk  all  day; 

Her  slippers  disclose 

Poor  'Lizabeth's  toes 
And  cotton's  her  modest  array. 

In  Kamatu's  land 

A  festival  grand, 
Is  held  for  the  dolls  in  March, 

And  dances  are  planned 

Where  the  cherry  trees  stand, 
Or  under  the  cedar  and  larch. 
114 


KAMATU  SAN  AND  'LIZABETH  ANN 

In  'Lizabeth's  state, 

Though  wealthy  and  great, 
No  dollie  has  any  such  joys. 

Ah!  't  is  a  hard  fate 

To  live  at  this  date, 
In  a  country  so  careless  of  toys! 

Yet  'Lizabeth  Ann 

And  Kamatu  San, 
In  loving  their  dollies  agree; 

So  dolls  in  Japan, 

Or  in  west  Michigan 
Can  be  happy  with  either,  you  see. 


115 


THE  LITTLE  'PRENTICE  LAD 

(A  German  Legend) 

LONG  ago,  in  an  old-world  town, 
'Mid  old-world  houses,  dusk  and  brown, 
With  red-tiled  roofs  pulled  over  their  eyes, 
Half -hiding  the  shine  of  the  blessed  skies, 
In  a  clockmaker's  shop  in  a  crooked  street, 
Lived  a  'prentice  lad.  There  was  naught  so  sweet 
In  the  width  of  the  world  as  the  orphan  child, 
Flow'r  of  the  Fatherland,  Hermann  styled. 

Blue  shone  his  eyes  through  his  locks  of  lint; 
White  were  his  cheeks.  There  was  more  than  a  hint 
From  the  gossips  who  met  in  the  public  square, 
That  Hermann  would  scarce  be  so  saintly  fair 
If  the  clockmaker's  wife  would  be  more  free 
With  her  porridge  and  milk.  It  was  plain  to  see 
He  was  not  half-nourished.  Such  things  were  shame 
To  a  rich  old  town  and  a  shop  of  name! 

Times  there  were  in  that  shop  of  name 
When  each  separate  clock  in  its  shining  frame 

116 


THE  LITTLE  'PRENTICE  LAD 

To  Hermann's  hearing,  the  whole  of  the  day, 
"So  hungry!"  "So  hungry!"  seemed  ever  to  say. 
And  hours  there  were  in  the  winter's  chill, 
In  the  dead  of  the  night,  when  the  town  was  still, 
When  their  bells  with  resonant  clamor  tolled, 
"Cold!  A-cold!  Little  Hermann  is  cold!" 

Yet  the  innocent  lad  asked  never  for  more 

Of  the  rosy  good- wife,  with  her  ample  store, 

Contented  to  toil  at  the  clockmaker's  will, 

With  errand  and  parcel,  to  shop  and  to  mill, 

If  only  but  once  through  the  crowded  day 

To  the  church  they  would  let  him  to  kneel  and  pray, 

To  gaze  at  the  sculptured  Mother  therfc, 

And  the  dear  Babe  Jesus,  so  marble-fair. 

The  clock-maker  jeered  at  him.  Hermann,  the  Saint, 
He  scornfully  called  him  and  strangely  quaint 
And  as  strangely  fitting,  the  gossips  said, 
Was  the  name  for  the  lad  of  the  lint-white  head, 
"Saint,  if  I  might  be!"  so  Hermann  thought, 
'Mid  the  whisp'ring  clocks  as  he  gently  wrought, 
"Would  I  had  treasure  to  serve  my  King, 
But  only  its  love  has  my  heart  to  bring!" 

117 


THE  LITTLE  'PRENTICE  LAD 

Christmas  Eve  in  the  old-world  town, 
Snow-white  and  shining  came  softly  down. 
Master  and  mistress,  all  gayly  bedight, 
Leaving  the  'prentice  to  fare  as  he  might, 
Sped  to  the  Councillor's  annual  feast, 
Food  being  most  to  them,  worship  the  least, 
"Supperless,  fireless,"  yet  thought  the  lad, 
"Still  have  I  ample  to  make  me  glad. 

"Now  I  have  no  one  to  say  me  nay 
Straight  to  the  church  will  I  run  and  pray. 
Would  I  had  aught  I  could  take  to  Him  there, 
On  this  Holy  Night,  to  my  Christ-child  fair!" 
Like  an  angel  vision,  so  white,  so  sweet, 
He  was  hast'ning  on  through  the  snowy  street, 
When  a  kindly  dame  at  her  apple-stand 
Pressed  a  golden  pippin  into  his  hand. 

Happiest  soul  'neath  the  round  moon's  light, 
The  'prentice  lad,  on  that  bitter  night. 
Here  was  his  gift  for  the  Blessed  Child, 
A  fitting  gift,  and  he  softly  smiled. 
Kneeling  down  where  the  candles'  glow 
Flushed  rosy  the  marble,  he  whispered  low, 

118 


THE  LITTLE  'PRENTICE  LAD 

"Loveliest  Christ-child,  take  from  me, 
The  only  treasure  I  have  for  Thee!" 

Wonder  of  wonders!  The  sculptured  hand 
Slowly  unfolded  at  his  command; 
Caught  was  the  fruit  in  a  swift  embrace, 
While  a  smile  shone  out  on  the  marble  face. 
Raptured,  adoring,  the  boy  knelt  on, 
While  a  whisper  stole  from  the  lips  of  stone,  - 
"Little  Saint  Hermann,  to-night  with  me, 
Shalt  apples  eat  from  the  Heav'nly  Tree!" 

'T  was  dusk  of  dawn  on  the  Christmas  Day, 
When  the  hoary  sacristan  passed  that  way, 
And  glimpsing  the  statue,  stopped,  amazed, 
Half -doubting  the  marvel  on  which  he  gazed. 
The  Christ-Child,  radiant  seemed  to  stand, 
The  apple  glowed  in  His  marble  hand, 
And  close  to  His  feet,  in  the  morning  gray, 
Haloed,  all-glorious,  Hermann  lay! 


119 


THE  SUNFLOWER'S  STORY 

A  SUNFLOWER  grew  by  a  gray  stone  wall, 
And  sighed,  as  she  nodded  her  head  so  tall, 
"I  would  I  could  be 

Far  over  the  sea; 
I  would  that  I  lived  in  Russia." 

"My  kindred  I  learn,  in  that  fortunate  clime 
Grow  up  to  a  height  that  is  something  sublime; 
And  the  seeds,  which  to  parrots  and  poultry  you  fling, 
Are  there  counted  sweetmeats  and  fit  for  a  king. 
The  smaller  seeds  straight  are  dispatched  to  the  mill, 
Where  an  oil  is  extracted  that  cooks  use  with  skill, 
While  the  part  that  remains  is  pressed  out  into  cakes 
And  an  excellent  food  for  the  cattle  it  makes. 
All  sunflower  products  the  wise  Russians  keep; 
Yes,  even  the  seed-cups  are  fed  to  the  sheep. 
The  tall  hollow  stalks  are  well  dried  in  the  sun, 
Then  stored  up  for  fuel  and  burned  every  one. 
From  the  ashes  the  finest  potassium 's  made, 
So  they're  carefully  sifted  and  carefully  weighed. 
Ah,  in  Russia  a  sunflower's  value  is  known, 
And  she's  treated  as  well  as  a  queen  on  her  throne! 

120 


THE  SUNFLOWER'S  STORY 

In  Orient  countries,  it  seems  that  when  fired 
And  mixed  with  tobacco,  our  leaves  are  admired; 
While  our  great  yellow  flowers  are  used  for  a  dye 
Which  they  to  their  garments  and  hangings  apply. 
I  learned  all  these  matters,  I  'd  have  you  to  know, 
From  some  traveling  merchants  who,  some  time  ago, 
Conversed  as  they  sat  on  a  warm  summer-day, 
In  the  shade  of  the  maple  just  over  the  way." 

"Of  course,  I'm  no  longer  contented  at  home; 
No  wonder  I'm  ardently  sighing  to  roam. 

I  would  I  could  be 

Far  over  the  sea; 
I  would  that  I  lived  in  Russia." 


121 


A  BANANA  STORY 

THE  luscious  banana,  as  every  one  knows, 
Is  native  of  lands  where  the  palm-tree  grows, 
And  if  you're  required,  and  can't  make  excuse, 
To  mention  a  plant  that 's  of  very  great  use, 
Just  give  the  banana,  and  prove  what  you  say 
By  quoting  these  lines  in  appropriate  way: 

SONG  OF  THE  BANANA 
When  winds  are  warm  first  shows  my  leaf, 

And  skies  of  blue  are  seen; 
While  tropic  suns  unroll  the  sheaf 

To  waving  flags  of  green. 
My  trunk's  herbaceous,  smooth,  and  strong, 

My  honeyed  flowers  fair; 
My  yellow  fruit  in  clusters  long 

Is  sweet  beyond  compare. 
'T  is  still  delicious,  cooked  or  raw, 

Or  when  to  flour  't  is  ground; 
My  leaves  are  used,  instead  of  straw, 

For  packing  dishes  round. 


A  BANANA  STORY 

Look  closely  at  their  under  side, 

A  store  of  wax  you  '11  see; 
'T  is  made  while  here  at  home  I  bide, 

Not  gadding,  like  the  bee. 
And  listen!  Who  would  ever  think, 

My  juices  you  might  use 
To  make  a  kind  of  marking  ink, 

And  blacking  for  your  shoes! 
But  that's  not  all,  the  tale  is  one 

In  many  chapters  told; 
My  stem  must  o'er  its  story  run, 

And  all  its  wealth  unfold. 
Just  feel  its  texture;  hemp  is  made 

Of  just  this  kind  of  thing, 
Twist  it  for  ropes,  for  matting  braid, 

Or  weave  it  for  the  king 
In  handkerchiefs  of  finest  lace, 

That  through  a  ring  could  pass, 
And  pattern  such  as  spiders  trace 

Upon  the  dewy  grass. 
I'm  the  Banana,  who  but  I! 

My  aid  to  man  I  lend; 
If  wealth  you  want,  for  comfort  sigh, 

Then  make  of  me  your  friend. 


SONG  OF  THE  CARNAHUBA  PALM 

BRAZIL  is  my  country, 

A  palm-tree  am  I; 
Just  go  with  me  thither, 

Your  wants  I  '11  supply. 
Should  you  wish  for  a  shelter, 

I'll  build  you  a  gem; 
The  joists  and  the  rafters 

Shaped  out  of  my  stem. 

My  leaves,  broad  and  pliant, 

Will  thatch  you  a  roof, 
And  under  its  cover 

You  '11  sit  weather-proof. 
You  need  not  go  hungry, 

I'll  yield  milk  and  flour, 
The  sweetest  of  sugar, 

And  vinegar  sour. 
Good  starch  I  can  furnish 

And  finest  of  wine. 
Just  cork  up  the  bottles 

With  this  pith  of  mine! 
124 


SONG  OF  THE  CARNAHUBA  PALM 

If  salt  you  require, 

Or  wish  to  make  soap, 
The  one  I  can  serve  you, 

Quite  fit  for  the  Pope, 
And  alkali  furnish 

To  make  up  the  other; 
There'll  be  no  hard  labor, 

No  smoke  and  no  smother. 
My  leaves  you  '11  dispose  of 

To  make  brooms  and  mats, 
The  strongest  of  baskets 

And  very  best  hats. 

My  roots  distill  medicine. 

Should  you  fall  ill, 
'T  will  cure  many  ailments 

And  save  a  long  bill. 
And  there  is  my  fruit 

In  which  cattle  delight; 
Its  pulp  is  agreeable, 

'T  is  fair  to  the  sight; 
Its  rich,  oily  kernel 

A  beverage  makes, 


125 


SONG  OF  THE  CARNAHUBA  PALM 

Delicious  for  breakfast 
With  feathery  cakes. 

My  story's  not  ended; 

My  stem,  light  and  strong, 
Has  uses  which  have  not 

Appeared  in  my  song. 
If  a  pump  you  would  like, 

If  a  tube  you  desire, 
To  bring  in  the  water, 

Or  put  out  a  fire; 
If  a  flute  you  would  fashion 

To  banish  dull  care, 
There's  naught  in  the  world 

With  my  stem  can  compare! 


126 


LITTLE  DORRIT'S  PLAYGROUND 

^1  new  public  park  called  "Little  Dorrit's  Playground"  has  just 

been  opened  in  London,  on  the  site  of  the  old  Marshalsea  Prison, 

made  famous  by  Dickens) 

IN  a  gloomy  prison  chamber 

Far  away  in  London  town, 
Once  was  born  a  little  baby 

As  the  night  came  darkly  down. 

Frowning  walls  and  iron  doorways 
Hemmed  her  in  from  day  to  day; 

In  a  jail-yard,  barred  and  stony, 
There  alone  her  feet  might  stray. 

Nothing  knew  she  of  the  country, 
Singing  birds  and  waving  trees; 

Roofs  and  chimney-pots  her  forest, 
Songsters,  —  creak  of  rusty  keys. 

Yet  the  baby,  weak  and  fragile, 
Nursed  upon  a  prisoner's  knee, 

Grew  a  maiden,  loving,  helpful, 
Of  a  spirit  brave  and  free. 
127 


LITTLE  DORRIT'S  PLAYGROUND 

Father,  brother,  wayward  sister, 
All  upon  her  strength  might  rest, 

And  her  own  woes,  light  or  heavy, 
Close  she  hid  within  her  breast. 

Ragged  children  hung  upon  her, 
Weak  and  helpless  ones  she  fed, 

She,  —  a  child  who  knew  no  childhood,  - 
She  herself,  who  lacked  for  bread. 

Gentle,  patient  "Little  Dorrit," 
Sweet  thy  name  will  ever  be; 

Sweet  it  breathes  as  scent  of  flowers, 
Daughter  of  the  Marshalsea! 

Fallen  is  that  gloomy  prison 
Where  thy  life-work  was  begun; 

In  its  place  is  set  a  playground 
Free  and  open,  bright  with  sun, 

Named  for  thee.  Ah,  "Little  Dorrit," 
As  they  walk  its  grassy  ways, 

Bend  and  hear  them,  London's  children, 
Hear  them  singing  in  thy  praise. 
128 


THE  THREAD-AND-NEEDLE  TREE 

I 

GLADYS  MEHITABLE  ARABELLE  JANE 

Could  never  be  taught  to  sew! 
A  table  they  gave  her,  exact  to  her  size, 
With  drawers  and  with  fittings  a  princess  might  prize. 
Such  needles  she  owned  in  a  glittering  line; 
Such  thread  and  such  silk,  both  the  coarse  and  the 

fine; 

The  daintiest  scissors  that  ever  were  seen, 
A  wee  golden  thimble,  a  gem  for  a  queen; 
But,  spite  of  these  charming  and  housewifely  things 
And  a  pink  brocade  work-bag  with  blue  satin  strings, 

She  could  not  be  made  to  sew! 

n 

Gladys  Mehitable  Arabelle  Jane 
Could  never  be  taught  to  sew! 
Her  mother's  instruction  she  viewed  with  disdain; 
Her  grandmother's  teaching  was  given  in  vain. 
Her  needles  she  'd  break  and  her  thread  she  would  lose, 
Her  thimble  she'd  hide  in  the  tops  of  her  shoes, 

129 


THE  THREAD-AND-NEEDLE  TREE 

She'd  tear  a  fine  handkerchief  given  to  make, 
Her  sampler  she'd  throw  to  the  puppy  to  shake; 
And  then  she  would  cry,  and  she'd  fret,  and  she'd 

scold, 

And  vow  if  she  lived  to  be  ninety  years  old 
She  never  would  learn  to  sew! 

Ill 

Gladys  Mehitable  Arabelle  Jane, 

Who  never  would  learn  to  sew  — 
Oh,  a  terrible  thing  befell  the  child! 
She  was  sent  to  live  in  a  desert  wild, 
By  her  godmother  fay,  who  was  heard  to  swear 
She'd  reform  the  chit  or  she'd  leave  her  there! 
'T  was  a  Mexican  desert  where  Arabelle  went, 
And  shelter  she  had  none,  not  even  a  tent. 
Her  task  was  to  gather  her  teardrops  and  soak 
The  Needle-and -Thread  Tree!  Dear  me,  what  a  joke 

On  a  child  who  so  "hated"  to  sew! 

IV 

Gladys  Mehitable  Arabelle  Jane, 
Who  never  would  learn  to  sew, 
Draws  her  needles  now  from  a  cactus  leaf, 
And  her  thread  unwinds  from  a  prickly  sheaf! 

130 


THE  THREAD-AND-NEEDLE  TREE 

She  does  it  with  care,  and  they've  taught  her  to  sing, 
"Oh,  't  is  sewing  I  love  above  everything!" 
Her  needles  are  thorns  and  they  're  shining  and  long, 
Her  thread  is  a  fiber  and  marvelous  strong: 
And  all  day  long  on  the  desert  sands 
She  mournfully  chants  o'er  her  gussets  and  bands  — 
This  Gladys  who  never  would  sew! 

V 

Gladys  Mehitable  Arabelle  Jane, 

Who  never  would  learn  to  sew, 
Tends  the  Needle  Tree  in  the  desert  drear, 
But  her  other  tasks  not  so  sweet  appear. 
She  mends  the  crown  of  the  fat  horned  toad; 
The  lizard's  tail,  if  it  snaps  in  the  road; 
The  scorpion's  claws  she  bastes  on  tight, 
And  the  spider's  webs  she  darns  by  night. 
She 's  the  tailor  for  snake  and  for  bumblebee. 
Oh,  ever,  eternally  busy  is  she, 

This  Gladys  who  "hated"  to  sew! 


131 


PEDDLING  POETRY 

THERE  was  once  a  lad,  but  I  '11  not  disclose 
His  Christian  or  surname,  who  early  rose 
To  fame  and  to  honor  and  gained  renown 
For  his  native  place,  which  was  Boston  town, 
By  his  wit,  his  wisdom,  his  gifted  pen 
And  the  priceless  inventions  he  gave  to  men. 
Fifteenth  bud  on  the  parent  tree, 
Brothers  and  sisters  to  spare  had  he. 
His  father,  a  maker  of  candles  and  soap, 
His  brother,  a  printer,  —  I  think  I  may  hope 
That  the  name  of  the  lad  can  be  quickly  told 
By  every  American,  young  or  old. 
The  boy  was  a  reader  and  day  and  night 
He  studied  by  fire  and  candle-light, 
In  yellowing  books  that  he  scarce  could  hold 
Romances  and  stories  of  heroes  bold. 
His  brain  was  a  field  where  gallants  dared, 
Where  war-steeds  trampled  and  heroes  fared. 
Now  out  of  these  visions  he  strove  to  frame, 
In  musical  verse  that  should  bear  his  name 
132 


PEDDLING  POETRY 

Weird  tales  of  adventure  on  sea  and  land; 
Of  Blackbeard  bold  and  his  pirate  band, 
Of  haunted  houses  and  dungeons  deep,  — 
Such  things  as  would  make  your  flesh  to  creep! 
The  elder  brother  struck  off  the  verse,  — 
"The  Lighthouse  Terror"  "The  Pirate's  Curse" 
From  his  printing-presses  and  up  and  down 
Through  the  paths  and  pastures  of  Boston  town, 
The  proud  little  poet  pursued  his  way, 
Crying  "Verses!  Who'll  buy  any  verse  to-day?" 
The  jingles  were  purchased  both  far  and  near 
Till  the  noise  of  them  came  to  the  father's  ear, 
And  reading  them  all,  'twixt  a  smile  and  a  frown, 
He  said  with  his  spectacles  twinkling  down 
On  the  reddening  cheek  of  his  fifteenth  hope, 
"As  a  cure  for  your  ailment,  we'll  try  Doctor  Pope, 
For  he  who  has  once  tasted  Pope  and  admired 
His  elegant  verses  hath  never  desired 
To  take  up  the  art  for  himself,  unless  he 
A  similar  master  of  English  can  be." 
Thus  spoke  the  wise  father  and  gave  to  the  lad 
The  dose  he  thought  fitting  for  verse  that  was  bad. 
The  cure  was  effective  and  never  again 
Did  the  lad  scribble  verse  with  his  eloquent  pen. 

133 


PEDDLING  POETRY 

He  grew  to  be  famous,  America's  pride; 
A  nation  mourned  over  his  grave  when  he  died, 
Now  who  was  this  statesman  of  great  renown 
Who  peddled  his  verses  in  Boston  town? 


134 


THE  LITTLE  ARTIST 

(From  the  German  of  Froebel) 

COME,  little  one,  quite  close  to  me, 
Lean  softly  here  against  my  knee, 
And  you  and  I  will  draw  to-day 
The  pretty  things  you  see  at  play. 
We'll  make  the  bird  with  glancing  wings, 
As  high  above  the  hill  she  sings; 
We'll  make  the  plum-tree  and  the  nest 
Where  all  her  bright-eyed  birdlings  rest. 
Now  draw  a  scampering,  silky  mouse, 
And  in  the  corner  here,  a  house. 
We'll  make  the  staircase  built  within, 
The  windows  where  the  sun  shines  in; 
We'll  roof  the  house  with  crimson  tiles 
And  draw  in  front  tall  trees  in  files. 
We'll  make  the  mirrors  on  its  walls, 
The  tables  laid  for  festivals, 
And  everything  within  shall  be, 
My  little  one,  for  you  and  me. 
135 


THE  LITTLE  ARTIST 

Now  sketch  the  bridge  where  children  go 
Across  the  brook  that  winds  below; 
Next  try  to  make  a  ladder  long, 
And  mother's  scissors  sharp  and  strong. 
Now  let  me  guide  your  hand,  my  dear, 
And  we  will  make  a  dovecote  here, 
The  farmer's  doves  all  flutt'ring  round, 
The  chickens  and  the  worm  they've  found, 
The  rabbits  in  their  cozy  hutch, 
The  saw  the  farmer  needs  so  much, 
His  harrow  and  his  shining  plow, 
His  cart  with  hay  for  mooly-cow, 
The  axle,  spoke,  and  tire,  and  wheel, 
His  water-jug  for  noon-day  meal. 
Now  let  us  draw  the  great,  round  sun, 
The  stars  that  shine  when  bedtime 's  come, 
And  then  the  eye  that  sees  their  light, 
Bright-beaming  in  the  sky  of  night; 
A  thousand,  thousand  stars  like  these 
We  see  when  snow  hides  grass  and  trees. 
Next  we  will  make  the  baby  moon 
And  then  the  sphere  she'll  be  so  soon; 
Now  last  of  all  the  great  church  door, 
And  then  the  drawing  lesson/s  o'er. 
136 


THE  LITTLE  ARTIST 

These  pictures,  dear,  may  not  last  long, 
But  practice  makes  the  fingers  strong; 
And  as  the  world  without  they  show, 
The  world  within  will  clearer  grow. 


137 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  DOLL 

IN  flow'ry  Japan,  the  home  of  the  fan, 
The  land  of  the  parasol, 

Each  month  has  its  feast,  from  greatest  to  least, 
And  March  is  the  Feast  of  the  Doll-doll-doll, 
And  March  is  the  Feast  of  the  Doll. 

The  wee,  slippered  maid  in  gown  of  brocade, 

The  baby  with  shaven  poll, 
The  little  brown  lad  in  embroidery  clad, 

All  troop  to  the  Feast  of  the  Doll-doll-doll, 

All  troop  to  the  Feast  of  the  Doll. 

How  pleasant 't  would  be,  'neath  an  almond-tree, 

In  sunshine  and  perfume  to  loll, 
Forget  our  own  spring,  with  its  wind  and  its  sting, 

And  sing  to  the  praise  of  the  Doll-doll-doll, 

And  sing  to  the  praise  of  the  Doll! 

Come,  sweet  Tippytoes,  as  pink  as  a  rose, 
And  white  as  a  cotton-boll, 

Let  us  follow  the  plan  of  the  folk  in  Japan, 
And  dance  for  your  Feast,  little  Doll-doll-doll, 
And  dance  for  your  Feast,  little  Doll. 
138 


THE  FEAST  OF  ARMS 

R-R-R-AT-TAT-TAT !    R-R-R-AT-TAT-TAT ! 

The  sound  makes  your  heart  go  pit-a-pat. 
The  drums  are  beating,  the  flag's  unfurled 
And  shakes  its  folds  at  the  great  round  world. 
A  warrior  brave  goes  marching  by, 
With  a  sleek  black  head,  held  straight  and  high, 
With  a  smooth  brown  cheek  and  an  almond  eye 
And  a  gown  that  glows  like  a  butterfly. 
Hurrah!  Hurrah!  Banzai!! 

Dr-r-um-tum-tum !  Dr-r-um-tum-tum ! 
Like  a  hive  of  bees  is  the  muttered  hum, 
'T  is  the  Feast  of  Arms  in  a  Japanese  Town, 
And  the  envious  Sun  sees,  looking  down, 
A  warrior  brave  go  marching  by, 
With  a  sleek  black  head,  held  straight  and  high, 
With  a  smooth  brown  cheek  and  an  almond  eye 
And  a  gown  that  glows  like  a  butterfly. 
Hurrah!  Hurrah!  Banzai!! 

Tr-r-ap-tap-tap!  Tr-r-ap-tap-tap! 
The  drumsticks  rattle,  the  fingers  snap. 

139 


THE  FEAST  OF  ARMS 

For  a  thousand  years  has  the  Japanese  lad 
On  the  Fifth  of  May  been  in  armor  clad; 
So  a  warrior  brave  goes  marching  by, 
With  a  sleek  black  head,  held  straight  and  high, 
With  a  smooth  brown  cheek  and  an  almond  eye 
And  a  gown  that  glows  like  a  butterfly. 
Hurrah!  Hurrah!  Banzai!! 

Tr-r-ump-tump-tump !  Tr-r-ump-tump-tump ! 
From  field  and  lane  sounds  the  distant  thump  — 
A  golden  carp  is  his  ensign  bold 
And  he  wears  his  sword  like  a  knight  of  old. 
Oh,  warrior  brave,  go  marching  by, 
With  your  sleek  black  head,  held  straight  and  high, 
With  your  smooth  brown  cheek  and  your  almond  eye 
And  your  gown  that  glows  like  a  butterfly. 
Hurrah!  Hurrah!  Banzai!! 


140 


THE  FEAST  OF  LAUGHTER 

'T  is  the  very  first  "day  of  the  hare" 

In  Wasa,  the  province  of  Kishu, 
And  the  breezes  that  sweep  through  the  town 

Depart  all  a-ripple  with  laughter  — 
With  light-hearted,  musical  laughter. 

The  month  is  the  tenth  in  Japan, 

In  Wasa,  the  province  of  Kishu, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  bamboo  are  stirred, 

And  the  sugar-cane  trembles  with  laughter  — 
With  rustle  and  tinkle  of  laughter. 

The  brown  baby  smiles. in  his  sleep, 

In  Wasa,  the  province  of  Kishu; 
While  the  fathers  ha-ha  at  their  work, 

The  mothers'  lips  bubble  with  laughter  — 
With  honey-sweet,  mellow-toned  laughter. 

Shall  I  tell  you  why  mirth  is  abroad 

In  Wasa,  the  province  of  Kishu? 
Why  the  owls  in  the  deep,  gloomy  shade, 

And  the  toad  in  his  hole,  shake  with  laughter 
With  silver-shrill,  jubilant  laughter? 


141 


THE  FEAST  OF  LAUGHTER 

Listen  all  who  listen  can, 

And  hear  this  tale  of  old  Japan! 

Ages  ago  the  thing  befell, 

But  people  still  the  story  tell. 

•        ••••••. 

'T  was  in  the  misty  long-ago, 

Ere  yet  this  gray  old  earth 
Had  grown  too  staid  and  sober 

To  indulge  o'ermuch  in  mirth. 
To  the  sacred  shrines  of  Ise, 

Where  Izumo's  walls  appear 
Purple-clad,  the  gods  assembled 

In  the  tenth  month  every  year. 
All  affairs  of  love  and  wedlock 

In  the  whole  land  of  Japan 
There  were  mooted,  there  were  settled, 

On  a  wise  celestial  plan. 

At  the  first  one  of  these  meetings, 
Having  half  forgot  the  date, 

When  the  grand  debate  was  over 
Certain  gods  arrived  too  late! 

Sympathy  nor  pity  gave  they  — 
Brother  gods  in  parliament  — 
142 


THE  FEAST  OF  LAUGHTER 

Ridiculed  the  tardy  comers, 
Every  one  on  laughing  bent. 

Since  that  time  in  all  the  district, 

On  the  "first  day  of  the  hare," 
Ancient  men  and  toddling  children 

Unto  Ise's  shrines  repair. 
Journey  ended,  all  the  graybeards 

Face  the  curious,  wond'ring  throng: 
"Laugh,  ye  bright-eyes!  Laugh,  ye  sweet-lips! 

Laugh  and  jest  the  whole  day  long!" 
Ready  smiles  break  out  in  answer 

On  each  satin,  dusky  cheek; 
Hands  are  clapping,  feet  are  dancing, 

Dimples  playing  hide-and-seek. 

Laughing  hear  the  feathered  people, 
Laughs  the  sun  as  he  looks  down, 

And,  the  sweet  contagion  spreading, 
Laughter  rings  through  all  the  town. 


143 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR1 

JANUARY 

WAS  ever  a  doll  like  my  Dolladine, 
The  charmingest  dolly  that  ever  was  seen! 
Eyes  as  blue  as  the  sky  at  noon, 
Hair  as  bright  as  the  summer  moon, 
Dolladine,  my  dear! 

She  came  to  me  in  December  last; 
To  the  Christmas-tree  they  had  bound  her  fast; 
My  heart  beat  high  when  I  saw  her  face, 
And  I  squeezed  her  tight,  thro'  her  silk  and  lace, 
Dolladine,  my  dear! 

I'm  the  thoughtfullest  mother  that  ever  was  known; 
I'd  scorn  to  leave  Dolladine,  darling,  alone; 
Each  month  of  the  twelve  I  invent  her  a  play, 
And  I  give  her  a  flower  to  wear  every  day, 
Dolladine,  my  dear! 

On  the  very  first  day  of  the  year  just  begun, 

I  wove  her  some  snow-shoes,  and  when  they  were  done, 

1  Published  by  G.  Schirmer,  with  music  by  Isadore  Luckstone. 

144 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR 

A  fine  sled  I  made  her,  to  slide  at  her  will, 
To  skim  o'er  the  valley  and  whiz  down  the  hill, 
Dolladine,  my  dear! 

Fresh  blossoms  in  winter  come  just  a  bit  high, 
And  there  are  n't  any  flower-shops  very  near  by; 
So  my  pet  wears  a  garland  of  fir  and  of  pine, 
And  under  the  green  how  her  starry  eyes  shine! 

Dolladine,  my  dear,  my  sweet! 

Dolladine,  my  own! 

FEBRUARY 
FEBRUARY,  dark  and  chilly, 

Comes  with  dripping  rain, 
Noon  of  day  and  midnight  stilly, 

Tapping  on  the  pane. 

Dolladine  is  growing  older, 

Precious  doll  of  mine; 
And  to-day  my  love  I  Ve  told  her, 

In  a  valentine. 

Cherry  blossoms  she  is  wearing, 
Sent  her  from  the  west. 
145 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR 

Tell  me,  can  you,  why  she's  bearing 
These  upon  her  breast? 

MARCH 
PUSSY  with  the  silver  fur; 

Willow,  pussy  willow! 
Dollie  wants  to  hear  you  purr; 

Willow,  pussy  willow! 

Kites  are  sailing  in  the  sky; 

Willow,  pussy  willow! 
Wind  is  tossing  branches  high; 

Willow,  pussy  willow! 

March  has  come,  't  is  time  to  blow; 

Willow,  pussy  willow! 
All  your  glossy  kits  to  show; 

Willow,  pussy  willow! 

APRIL 
A  RAIN-POOL  lies  just  over  the  way, 

And  on  it  a  fairy  boat; 
And  there,  in  her  craft  of  the  birchen  bark 
My  dollie's  a  sailor  afloat. 
146 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR 

Row,  row,  Dolladine,  now! 

April  is  steering  and  Spring 's  at  the  bow. 

With  Dandelions  the  prow  is  decked, 

All  gay  on  the  rain-pool  sea, 
And  a  chain  I  've  made  of  their  shining  stems, 

To  draw  Dollie  back  to  me. 

Row,  row,  pretty  one,  now! 

April  is  steering  and  Spring 's  at  the  bow. 

MAY 

MAY  is  coming,  listen!  hark! 
Flowers  growing  dawn  and  dark. 
Dollie 's  playing  in  the  grass, 
Bees  about  her  humming  pass; 
Lilacs  in  her  yellow  hair, 
Breath  of  lilacs  everywhere. 
Let  us  set  a  May-pole  here, 
Where  the  daisy  buds  appear; 
Let  us  garland  it  about, 
Weave  with  blossoms  in  and  out. 
Then  I  '11  wreathe  a  flow'ry  crown, 
Make  a  regal  robe  and  gown. 
147 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR 

Who  of  May  shall  be  the  queen? 
Who  but  precious  Dolladine! 

JUNE 
DOLLIE  and  I  in  the  sweet  June  weather, 

A  rose  of  June  in  her  hair. 
Dollie  and  I  in  the  swing  together; 

Oh,  the  rush  of  the  swing  in  the  air! 

Strawberries  ripening  down  in  the  meadow, 

A  strawberry  is  her  mouth. 
Buttercups  swaying  in  sun  and  shadow; 

Oh,  soft  is  the  wind  of  the  south! 

If  but  June  weather  might  last  forever, 
Warm  as  the  heart  of  my  dear, 

And  birds  and  blossoms,  in  sweet  endeavor, 
Might  grow  side  by  side  for  a  year! 

JULY 
THE  poppy  glows  in  the  garden  bed, 

For  it  is  July. 
The  poppy's  drooping  her  drowsy  head, 

For  it  is  July. 
Blue  sky,  flags  high, 
Hot  July. 

148 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR 

The  poppy 's  the  only  one  to  sleep, 

For  it  is  July. 
The  world  is  too  noisy  for  slumber  deep, 

For  it  is  July. 
Blue  sky,  flags  high, 

Gay  July. 

Dolladine  's  wearing  a  Liberty  cap, 

For  it  is  July. 
She'll  march  when  she  hears  the  drummer's  tap, 

For  it  is  July. 
Blue  sky,  flags  high, 

Our  July. 

AUGUST 
IT  really  makes  me  very  sad 

To  tell  the  illness  dollie's  had. 
The  causes  were  not  wholly  plain, 

But  remedies  were  all  in  vain; 
And  doctors  said  that  she  must  go 

Down  where  the  ocean  breezes  blow. 

At  home  the  lilies  are  in  bloom, 
Here  sea-winds  give  the  sole  perfume. 
149 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR 

And  Dolladine  is  growing  brown 

As  dry  leaves  when  they  flutter  down. 

Gone  are  her  ills,  forgotten  quite. 

Deep  in  the  sand  they  hide  from  sight. 

I  *ve  made  of  her  a  mermaid  fair. 

A  veil  of  sea-weed  shrouds  her  hair. 
A  rope  of  sea-shells  decks  her  gown, 

Low  falling,  all  her  drapery  down. 
In  the  whole  world  of  waters  green, 

There's  naught  so  fair  as  Dolladine. 

SEPTEMBER 
Do  you  know  of  a  fairy  maiden, 

All  in  the  olden  time, 
Who  rode  in  a  pumpkin  carriage, 

Like  a  Christmas  pantomime? 
Such  a  Cinder-maid  is  dollie, 

Such  a  pumpkin  coach  has  she, 
And  she's  off  to  the  royal  palace, 

The  prince  himself  to  see. 

Jack-o-Lanterns  light  the  ball, 
'T  is  a  night  entrancing. 
150 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR 

Golden-rod  bedecks  the  hall, 
Crickets  play  for  dancing. 

No  crystal  shoe  has  dollie, 

But  her  foot  is  like  a  fay's, 
And  of  all  the  folk  at  the  party, 

None  can  better  tread  the  maze. 
She  11  return  ere  the  hour  of  midnight, 

Her  godmamma  to  see, 
The  fairy  who  built  her  carriage; 

Can  you  guess  who  this  may  be? 

Jack-o-Lanterns  light  the  ball, 

'T  is  a  night  entrancing. 
Golden-rod  bedecks  the  hall, 

Crickets  play  for  dancing. 

OCTOBER 
AUTUMN'S  coming  o'er  the  hill, 

Treading  fast  and  faster. 
Soon  his  foot  will  cross  the  sill, 
Autumn's  coming  o'er  the  hill. 
Where  the  summer  lingers  still, 
Blooms  the  purple  aster. 
151 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR 

Autumn's  coming  o'er  the  hill, 
Treading  fast  and  faster. 

Through  the  rustling  leaves  she  goes, 

Dolladine,  my  dollie. 
Summer's  lent  her  cheek  a  rose, 
Through  the  rustling  leaves  she  goes. 
Down  the  frosty  wind  there  blows 

Autumn's  laughter  jolly; 
Through  the  rustling  leaves  she  goes, 

Dolladine,  my  dollie. 

NOVEMBER 

THE  Indian  chieftain  smokes  his  pipe, 
The  hills  with  haze  are  murky. 

And  yonder  struts,  with  spreading  tail, 
The  grand  Thanksgiving  turkey. 

Oh  ho !  Oh  ho !  how  happy  we  '11  be, 
When  the  cousins  come  to  dollie  and  me! 

Dollie  shall  wear  a  cranberry  chain, 
And  her  very  best  new  bonnet; 

The  one  with  a  buckle,  a  puff  and  a  bow, 
And  a  curly  feather  on  it. 
152 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR 

Oh  ho!  Oh  ho!  how  happy  we'll  be, 
When  the  cousins  come  to  dollie  and  me! 

The  house  is  ready,  the  fires  blaze, 

We  fear  not  cold  November. 
By  the  hearth  we  '11  sit  and  stories  tell, 

And  good  old  times  remember. 

Oh  ho!  Oh  ho!  how  happy  we'll  be, 
When  the  cousins  come  to  dollie  and  me! 

DECEMBER 
IT  is  the  eve  of  Christmas  Day, 

And  thick  and  fast  it's  snowing. 
With  dollie  cuddled  in  my  lap, 

I  watch  the  white  flakes  blowing. 
Long,  long  ago  I  bought  her  gift, 

A  holly  wreath  I've  made  her, 
And  I  shall  hang  her  stocking  up 

When  safe  in  bed  I've  laid  her. 
Dear  Santa  Claus,  whate'er  you  bring, 

Of  all  your  Christmas  blisses, 
You  ne'er  can  bring  to  me  again 

So  sweet  a  doll  as  this  is. 
153 


THE  DOLL'S  CALENDAR 

My  lamb  she  is,  my  dear  delight, 
My  darling  and  my  treasure; 

Of  all  the  joys  the  year  has  brought, 
The  very  chiefest  pleasure. 


THE  END 


154 


tttoetfibe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    .  A 


051 


